Colours
by agrajagthetesty
Summary: He always closes his eyes as they kiss, as if afraid to see her face so close to his own, as if the reality will be lost if he does... A series of AlWin drabbles and short oneshots. Rated T just in case. All released chapters are K rated so far.
1. Reality

**Reality**

He always closes his eyes as they kiss, as if afraid to see her face so close to his own, as if the reality will be lost if he does; she keeps her eyes open, drinking in the shape and gentle contours of his face. He is almost afraid to touch her, unsure and constantly doubting what seems so real- the feel of her skin, the softness and light touch of her hair- he doesn't want to ruin them; she wraps her arms around him and holds him close to her chest. He always wants to talk, needing assurance that she is really there, that what he feels, she feels too, and that she is happy; she tells him that she has never been happier, and it is true- but she is tired of talking, has done nothing but talk to him for her whole life- and she kisses him just to keep him quiet. He has always been cautious, and explains softly to her that he doesn't want to spoil everything by moving too fast; she laughs at the idea and tells him with fervour that if anyone will move too fast in this relationship, it will be her.

And, somehow, he finds that a comfort.

_Author's notes: A little outlet for my AlWin obsession. I'm not sure how many of these I'll write in total- 50? 100? I haven't set myself a target. It all seems a little daunting really. . . But the advantage to this format is that I can write these really quickly. I wrote 6 today. :D They should range in length quite a lot, but won't be too long- if I write anything substantial I'll publish it separately.__ (I won't repeat all this for every drabble, incidentally. In future each chapter will only have the notes specific to that particular drabble.)_

_NB. I might as well put this here. Just in case I've accidentally been ignoring people who send me messages, I'm sorry. Fanfiction's alert system isn't working well for me at the moment. If you have something to say to me, please say it in a review, as I can still get those. Private messages I'm not sure about._

_Reviewers all get kudos cookies, and also can request something if they like. It has to be AlWin (duh) and can't be lemony- unless I really like the idea XD_


	2. Haste

**Haste**

Ed realises, of course; realises that their visits get longer and longer each time; realises that his little brother's face has begun to light up more and more at the prospect of going to see her; realises that he himself has suddenly become the composed one, walking steadily along as Al breaks away from his side and runs eagerly down the path to the wide yellow house; realises that the sentiment is reflected in the way she dashes out of the door, sometimes with a tool or piece of wiring still clutched in her hand, and flings her arms around him.

And as they whirl each other round in the embrace that gets more and more heartfelt every time they see each other, and Ed's unwavering pace at last brings him to where they spin together, a smile lodged on his face despite himself, he reflects wryly that if things continue this way, he won't put it past Al to begin damaging his older brother's automail in secret, just so he can come here and see her face again.

_Author's notes: Yay! Um. . . not much to say, except that these are two mega-long sentences. :D_


	3. Colours

**Colours**

Her eyes are blue, and of a certain shade he almost never sees anywhere else. Most of his life is dark and violent, and this is reflected in the colours of his brother's clothes- black, and red. He himself is grey, a terrible colour, lifeless and meaningless when compared to her vibrancy. He sees grey, black, dark green and red, all around him, everywhere in the life they lead, reflecting the nature of their mission and the pain of their journey in everything he sees. He spots navy, in the severe military uniforms, and gold, in the flash of his brother's hair. Even yellow and white are not unheard of. But, he reflects silently as he watches her raise her eyelids and look at him, a smile spreading over her face, bright blue is a colour he sees only in her gaze, and in the dazzling midmorning blaze of the sky.

_Author's notes: The title drabble of the collection. I had a terrible job writing it, so I think it deserves its place. Everyone can tell where I come from by the way I spell "colour", but there you are. XD_

_As I said before, I wrote 6 drabbles today, but I'm going to stop here in my uploading for now. Why? Well, partly because I want to prolong their publication a little (like till tomorrow- I'm so impatient XD), but mostly because sleep is my friend and it calls me 0.0_


	4. Bluebell

**Bluebell**

He tries to count the number of times he's told her he loves her, tallies them up in his mind, and wonders if it could possibly be enough to express the way he feels about her. He says it constantly, asleep or awake, whether shouting it at the top of his lungs from down in the garden as she laughs from the windowsill two stories above, or whispering it into the gentle whorls of her delicate ears, almost talking to himself, dusky and drooping beneath a heavy approaching sleep. But it feels insufficient, as if he must do much more for her, pay her back, satisfy the equivalent exchange of all she has done for him over the years. He worries about it constantly: surely all her kindness and tolerance and patience have given him more that he has paid back with his inadequate words of love.

Head filled with the idea of showing her his gratitude, he slips out of the house early one morning, leaving her asleep in the bedroom, and gathers flowers from all around the house, plucking them from his carefully cultivated plots until his arms flow over with them. He goes into the kitchen and fills countless vessels with water, then sneaks cautiously back upstairs, balancing everything in his arms, to where she sleeps, hair spread like sunlight over the rumpled white sheets. He puts the largest bouquet on the dressing table in a chipped blue vase and fills the room with the rest of the flowers, in jars, pots, mugs and glasses. He places one last flower, a tiny bluebell, on the windowsill where she can see it as she opens her eyes, and at last flees from the room, flying down the stairs breathless with excitement.

She comes into the kitchen where he is sitting a few minutes later, hair tangled and loose over her shoulders, holding the flower between curious, sleep-numbed fingers, and places it on the table in front of him, looking a question at him with her eyes.

He silently picks up the bluebell and tucks it into her ruffled golden hair, just above her ear, in response.

And as the smile dawns across her face, washing warmly over him, and she reaches up to kiss him, he realises that Equivalent Exchange is wrong. There is nothing he can give that will be equal to this.

_Author's notes: A bit more plot than the others, but still short and (hopefully) sweet. I do like this one, but I feel that I used a few techniques that are getting a bit worn out._


	5. Routine

**Routine**

A long time ago, before anyone was entirely sure about the nature of their relationship, Ed used to sit between them on the sofa.

He enjoyed it; enjoyed sitting with them, his brother on one side, their mutual best friend on the other; enjoyed the company the two of them provided. He also appreciated the sense of control: sitting there in the centre, keeping the flow of conversation moving between them all.

That was the way he saw it.

But over time he slowly, subconsciously became aware that that was not the way it was. Nothing had changed on the outside, and nobody spoke of the tiny difference that had come over the situation, but Ed could somehow sense the two of them shifting uncomfortably, but invisibly, as they sat wedged on either side of him. There was an almost imperceptible weight in the air, as though they were communicating with each other over the top of his head- which by now could have been achieved with grace and ease.

He didn't mention it, fearing that it would sound stupid and not entirely sure about it himself, and continued doggedly in the old routine, pointedly ignoring the looks they gave him.

One summer day, instead of going into the living room after dinner, he decided to go for a walk outside. The day had been hot, gradually forcing the sweat out of him, and cool air was something he was in need of.

When he came back inside half an hour later he headed straight for the living room to sit and relax. He turned the handle and opened the door with next to no sound, and when he came into the room he saw them sitting on the sofa, kissing with their arms around each other.

He closed the door as silently as he had opened it, and went into the kitchen, sitting at the table and staring at the wall for a long time.

The next day he bolted his dinner and strode off into the living room without a moment's pause after he finished, positioning himself slap-bang in the centre of the sofa. It was a mix-up of a sofa, one that had never quite decided whether to sit two people or three. Normally they could all three fit onto it, but they would be slightly squashed together- just enough to be cosy- but the way he was sitting now, legs wide apart, there was barely room for a small person on either side. He stretched his arms out along the back of the couch in order to take up as much space as possible, settled himself, and waited.

They walked in together a few minutes later, and stopped in the doorway when they saw him. He looked up at them, frowning, almost glaring from under his brows. They stared back, wide-eyed, bewildered.

Then Ed's face split into a grin and he moved over, edging up to the far end of the sofa and patting the cushioned seat beside him.

Sighing with relief, they walked over to join him, and their smiles were grateful and happy as they sat down together.


	6. Simplicity

**Simplicity**

He watches her as she works, stands behind her and peers over her shoulder at the complex labyrinths of circuits and bolts and unidentifiable pieces of metal; at her hands, short-nailed but long-fingered, assembling the tangled confusion into a recognisable shape and a moving, life-changing object. He examines the back of her head from where he stands; watches the light catching on the highlights of her hair, glittering down the length of her ponytail; sees the tiny soft hairs at the base of her neck. But then she turns to look around the workshop for something, and yelps as she finds herself suddenly nose to nose with him.

She asks him, sweetly, if he would kindly clear off and stop breathing down her neck. He looks hurt, and she relents, telling him that he can stay, but that it creeps her out to have him looming over her like that. He perches on the end of the table instead, where he can see her face, her expression intense, loose loops of hair escaping from under her bandanna as she works.

She holds her hand out, along with a request to pass her the spanner, please.

He looks around blankly, then finds it on the bench beside him and holds it out. She takes it without looking up, and only sees it when she brings it into her line of vision.

This isn't the one she wants.

It isn't? He blinks at her.

She sighs, scraping her chair back and standing. No, she needs a 2 ½ . . .

She begins to turn, but he leaps up to stop her. It's okay! He'll get it! But he isn't careful, and he knocks over a box of tools standing on the bench.

Cursing, she bends and begins to pick them up. He wants to help her, but is too afraid to, in case he destroys something else. He apologises profusely.

She tells him wearily that it's fine, sitting back on her haunches. But maybe the table isn't a great place for him to sit either, she says.

He creeps shamefully away and sits meekly on a stool in the corner, raising his eyes and silently asking for her approval. She stands, dragging her wrist across her forehead and holding the toolbox under her arm. Just why, she demands, does he want to watch her working so badly, anyway?

He looks up at her, eyes entirely free from embarrassment. Because he loves her.

The simplicity of his statement is enough to change her mind. Maybe it isn't so bad having him in the workshop after all.

_Author's notes: Yay for name-less, quotation-less prose!!!_

_I'm not sure if I said this before, but these drabbles aren't meant to be in any sort of order. Just in order of conception. Also- and I definitely didn't say this before- any sort of review is great, but they are made even greater if they contain comments specific to certain drabbles. Just so I can see what people like and what they don't :D_


	7. Tracings

**Tracings**

He runs one fingertip down the centre of her back, examines each tiny vertebra, the minuscule bumps, barely disturbing the smooth curve and flow of her skin, that make up her spine. He takes and holds one single hair, and turns it between his fingers, watching the play and dance of colour and shine within the lone strand, the softness in it, its suppleness and strength. He inspects her every freckle and fleck of colour, her scars and burns, traces the patterns, knows them by heart, the imperfect patches that gather the colours of her skin together into one constant palette. He wonders over the minute mesh of fine lines over her palms, the criss-crossing of the miniature web, the way they pull and crease together as she closes her fingers. He watches the shadows her eyelashes cast over the curve of her cheek, the infinitesimal tracings as she closes her eyes. He knows every movement she makes, her walk, her laugh, the sound of her breath. And he thinks of how each individual aspect of her, even when broken down, is as beautiful as the whole.


	8. Solid

**Solid**

He has made her lazy.

Before him, she would leap out of bed in the morning with an unrivalled enthusiasm, wrench in hand, overalls hanging within arm's reach, her mind already sparking and crackling. She would wash as fast as possible, humming monotonously, scrape her hair back with her fingernails, holding the elastic tie between her teeth, devour some food, anything she could find, and be downstairs in the workshop before fifteen minutes had passed. She had always assumed that it was what she did, that was all, and what she would always do. She just couldn't wait to _work_, and would jump up and get ready as fast as she could.

Now, she wakes slowly, stretching languidly, dragging herself unhurriedly upwards out of sleep. She sighs, still barely semi-conscious, and rolls over, reaching out for his solidly present form, the warmth he radiates. She cushions her head on his shoulder and settles back to sleep.

She wakes twenty minutes later, pulled suddenly into a reluctant wakefulness. She doesn't need an alarm clock: her own body wakes her with a regularity superior to any piece of quartz. It, at least, knows she should be working. She grumbles into his shoulder at her unwanted consciousness, and settles herself determinedly into a comfortable doze.

She surfaces again after ten minutes, as he stirs beside her. He always sleeps for longer than she does. She moves slowly, raising her head and looking up at him from under heavy eyelids as she curls snugly into his side. He smiles his adorable sleep-filled smile and moves his arm around her shoulder, drawing her close. "Good morning," he whispers.

She grins, and buries her head in his chest. _Just five more minutes,_ she thinks.

_Author's notes: Don't blame her. Can't say I'd want to get up if Al was lying next to me :P_


	9. Miniature

**Miniature**

She kisses him, lightly, on the nose. He laughs involuntarily at the feeling, at her hair tickling his face, at the spontaneity of it, but mostly at the way she has to stand on tiptoes in order to reach high enough. She lowers her brows and glares in mock-anger, still holding his face between her hands, but try as he might he is unable to stop the laughter from escaping him.

He hugs her hard when he sees her again after their long period of separation, lifting her up and spinning her around until she gasps, and staggers when he sets her down at last. He is sheepishly apologetic afterwards, and explains awkwardly that he was very excited to see her. She laughs, saying that she figured that out, and jokes that her spine will never be the same again; he blushes and ducks his head.

He is playing with her hair, running his fingers through it, and gets hopelessly entangled halfway along the length. Whatever he does seems to make it worse-and his panicking doesn't help the situation either. She, of course, is unable to do anything, as she can't see what is attached to her own head. In the end, both of them crimson with shame, they have to call in assistance, and now suspect that Ed, who guffaws like a moron throughout the entire operation, will never let them live it down.

She unwittingly walks in on him washing his face at the bathroom sink, clad only in his underwear; she flees with an embarrassed shriek, leaving the door hanging open behind her, and him turning belatedly around to look over his shoulder in confusion. She can't look him in the eye when he comes, thankfully fully-dressed, into the kitchen later; she stares, red-faced, at her knees. She expects him to be angry, knowing that he, unlike his brother, is modest, and would rather not be seen semi-naked. He awkwardly tells her that it's fine: he knows it was an accident- but Ed walks into the room at that point, and refuses to go until they explain their conversation; he leaves cackling a few minutes later, barely avoiding the missiles thrown at his back.

Their noses collide when they kiss, sometimes, or their foreheads. He pulls away, glowing with humiliation while she giggles, both with a hand to the afflicted area.

But life, like love, is full of these miniature complications, and in the end it is these things, just as much as the perfections, that draw them closer together.

_Author's notes: Ed seems abnormally amused by other people's discomfort. . ._


	10. Picnic

**Picnic**

They go for a picnic beside the river, all three of them and Den together, as they have done since they were children.

Pinako packs the hamper for them, despite them now being perfectly capable of doing it themselves, because she always has done.

It is almost too heavy to carry, and they laugh as they lug it along between them, because it seems that as they get older, their picnics increase steadily in size as well, so that the basket has never once been easy to carry.

They bring swimming costumes with them, wrapped in a towel under their arms in the familiar fashion, and they dive and splash and shriek in the river with no change at all over the years.

Ed gets bored before the other two, and he mooches off earlier than them- just as the sun reaches four o'clock- with Den at his side, as he has had a tendency to do all his life.

But then, alone together on the blanket beneath the tree, they start to kiss each other in a way no children could possibly imagine.

_Author's notes: Probably the most suggestive of all the drabbles so far. Gasp, suggestive! They probably won't get much more so than this, though._


	11. Terrible Mistake

**Terrible Mistake**

Winry stands numbly in the shower, water coursing down over her body and pouring through her hair, eyes closed and concentrating on the feeling of warmth coating her skin. She has been there for over half an hour now, trying to wash away her guilt and horror with the hot water and the feeling of relaxation it brings to her bones.

How could she let this happen?

She is ashamed of herself, ashamed of her lack of caution and inhibition, ashamed of the promise to herself that she has broken in a casual moment of stupidity and excess. She didn't want to show her face when she realised what had happened that morning, immediately scuttling off into the bathroom before anyone else woke up, in order to hide from them all. She doesn't want anyone to know, to realise, to work out what she has done. She has decided, futilely, to hide the evidence, and she lurks in the shower for as long as she feasibly can without drowning, or the water turning her permanently into a large, bright pink prune.

She can barely look at herself in the mirror when at last she emerges, no longer able to withstand the heat, which has left scarlet patches of skin across her shoulders and chest. She dresses as quickly as possible to avoid seeing her reflection, pulling on her longest, baggiest trousers and a sweater of a similar shape, in a final desperate attempt to cover herself and hide the terrible mistake she has made.

Unable to conceal herself any longer, she slinks miserably out of the bathroom, hair damp and towel clutched nervously in front of her, and goes cautiously into the kitchen. She stops in the doorway, and gulps. The last person she wants to see right now is sitting innocently at the table with a mug of tea.

Al looks up curiously, and she realises that she must have attracted his attention with the way she stopped so suddenly when she saw him. Damn, damn.

"What is it?" he asks.

She feigns innocence. "What do you mean?"

He gestures in her general direction, and her stomach twists sharply. Has he noticed?

"Your clothes," he says.

_Way to be subtle, Winry,_ her mind says to her. Perhaps she should have worn her normal clothes after all- but they are far too revealing for the way she feels at the moment. She would rather wear something that hides her as much as possible, right now.

But she could hardly expect him not to realise her sudden change of clothing, after all- and now he stands questioningly in front of her, waiting for a response.

Winry's lips part, but barely any sound emerges.

"What is it?" he says, concerned now, seeing the shame and pain in her expression. He moves closer to her, alarmed. "Winry . . ."

She stares up at him, not knowing what to say.

He puts his arms comfortingly around her. "It's alright. Whatever it is, it'll be okay. I promise."

"Al," she mutters into his shirt. "I . . ."

"Yes?" he prompts gently.

She screws up her face, hating herself.

". . . I've put on weight!"

_Author's notes: Because I always think up ideas for fics when I'm in the shower._

_Not to be rude or anything, but. . . 302 hits? 6 reviews? That kinda sucks. That's not even one review per chapter. Come on, people, I know you can do better than that. I'm working really hard to get these out fast and keep people interested, but I KNOW that some people have favourited or put me on their alert list, and not even left me a note saying that they liked it. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE! And I'm not above exposing you to the public. So please review. It really means a lot. You don't want me to start demanding a minimum number of reviews before I publish the next drabble, do you? Because I'm not above that either._

_And may I repeat my request for reviews with comments specific to particular drabbles? (Of course, a way to ensure that would be to post them days or even weeks apart from each other. . . FEAR THE THREATENING TONE!)_


	12. Birthday Present

**Birthday Present**

Al remembers her birthday a full three months early, but he worries about what he will give her as much as if he had only a few days to prepare. He considers the normal things- shoes, chocolates, perfume, jewellery- everything Ed has slapped into the ever-broadening category of "girl stuff"- but decides that that sort of thing isn't really Winry's style. He debates over tool kits or automail equipment, but comes to the conclusion that as he himself has no clue about how to buy it or what she may need, he will be better off leaving that to the professionals. He even goes so far as to come into Winry's workshop a month prior to the day and not-so-subtly inquire what it is that she most wants. Her answer of, "Right now? A glass of water. Isn't it _hot_?" he thinks, however, does not really count as a genuine request.

It is strange, he thinks, that the better you get to know someone, the more difficult it is to buy presents for them.

So he frets over it, knowing that if he misses the mark with his present, it will be a terrible sign of ignorance on his part.

In the end he makes his mind up, just barely in time. He will make her something- something he happens to know she loves. Raspberry ice cream. It is summer at the moment, too. Perfect.

He goes to the market the day beforehand and buys the raspberries- boxes and boxes of them- along with more sugar and cream than he can comfortably carry. He gets everything home, somehow, and conceals it all at the back of the fridge. He has plans to make sure that she doesn't find it.

She is pleasantly surprised when he tells her not to worry about helping him with the dinner that night.

The morning of her birthday goes as planned. She opens all her cards and presents in bed- he has been kicked out in order to make room for the gifts. Ed, Al is amused to see, has followed his own advice and bought Winry earrings, something that most definitely counts as girl stuff. Pinako, who came to visit specially, has purchased an item that, despite Winry's gasps and the excited technobabble the two women exchange upon its unveiling, both brothers find completely baffling. They know that it went down well, however, from the way Winry's eyes lit up, the increasing pitch of her voice, the fact that the present is made of metal, and the knowledge that Pinako knows what she's doing in that area. There are other things, too, from Winry's friends, colleagues, clients and so on. Even Mustang has sent a little something- probably prompted by Hawkeye, Ed says wryly.

At last, breathless with excitement, Winry reaches the bottom of the pile and realises that there is nothing from Al.

He leaps in before she has a chance to be disappointed. "My present isn't right for this time of day. I'll give it to you later, Winry."

She understands- knows that Al, of all people will not have forgotten her birthday- and all of them talk in her room for a while. Soon, however, she slaps her knees and announces that she ought to get up. They all agree, if reluctantly, and gradually disperse, each heading their separate ways for the day.

Al goes straight into the kitchen. Winry had her breakfast in bed, so she won't be heading towards this part of the house. He knows that she will be impossible to dislodge from her workshop until lunchtime at least. He has hours in which to prepare.

---

Winry comes into the kitchen at half past one, sighing with satisfaction and streaked with oil. Auntie's present is _perfect_. She flops down at the table, tired but immensely pleased with herself.

And Al places a bowl of raspberry ice cream in front of her.

---

"Winry!"

He knocks on the door in a frenzy of worry.

"Winry, are you alright? I'm sorry!"

No response.

"_Winry_!"

She emerges finally, pale and slicked with damp sweat. Al is almost in tears. "I'm so sorry! I'm really sorry! I made you ill!"

"No," she says, weak but insistent. "No, it wasn't you. It . . ."

But nothing will reach him. Fists clenched, he apologises over and over. His present made her sick. What has he done?

She insists that it's not his fault, she has been feeling nauseous for a few days now, it tipped her over the edge, that's all.

But he knows that even so, there was nothing forcing her to eat it. "I'm sorry," he says miserably. "I couldn't even give you a proper birthday present . . ."

She is in bed for a few days, with "a bad stomach bug", Pinako says. Al tends to her every need, bringing her water, pillows, and what food she can swallow. He does it all silently, still ashamed of the disaster he has caused.

A few days later, as he is setting a tray of soup on her bedside table, she catches hold of his wrist. "Al," she says.

He looks at her.

She tugs on his wrist, and he sits obediently on the side of the bed. "I don't blame the ice cream, you know," she says quietly. "Not in the least."

He offers her a faint smile.

"I blame something else you did," she tells him seriously.

And she takes his hand and places it on her stomach.

He stares speechless at her smiling face, at her eyes brimming over with tears.

"Don't worry, Al," she whispers, leaning forwards and drawing him into a close embrace. "I think you gave me a wonderful birthday present."

_Author's notes: Hands up if you saw that coming. And hands up if you noticed the Royai reference. If so, kudos._

_This fic probably establishes me as one of the only people to write a pregnancy fic without once mentioning sex. -.-; Well, that's just me, I'm afraid. I'll write more about the pregnancy in future. Maybe one day I'll even write about the baby :D_


	13. Cavity

**Cavity**

He will always remember the feeling- or non-feeling- of her hugging him, tightly around the waist- as high as she could reach on him, back when he was in the armour. He couldn't feel her arms holding him; the smooth warmth of her skin pressed against the cold, unfeeling, senseless metal of his body; the soft flowing masses of her hair between his fingers when he hugged her back; her long slender hands held in his own huge blunt gauntlets; the light, hot rushes of air as she whispered breathily into the space where his ears once were. What he could feel, however- what he is unable to forget and still feels even now- is the much more real sensation of tingling, breathless heat, which spreads through the empty cavity of his chest whenever they touch.


	14. Inaudible

**Inaudible**

Somehow, he can always tell when she is coming. It might be the slight, almost inaudible jangling noises she makes- her pockets are full of metal- bolts, screws, nails, and even small tools- and they knock against each other and her legs as she walks. It might be her quick, shuffling pace and the way her feet scuff the floor to keep her sandals on. It might be her excited breaths, her happy sighs and the way she hums tunelessly through her teeth as she approaches- habits she picked up who knows where, and which somehow manage never to be annoying- to him, at least. It could even be the way she smells- of metal, machine oil and sweat, mixed with grass and aniseed, and something else too, something sweet and floral. All of these things help in identifying her.

But what clinches it is the way she walks over to him as quietly as possible before suddenly winding her arms around him from behind- and then gets angry when she fails to surprise him, and asks him indignantly how he knew she was there.


	15. Boundless

**Boundless**

He loves her without complications, without embarrassment, without question. He loves her with a fervour and passion; with the love of a child. He loves her purely, blindly, infinitely, endlessly. He loves her without measuring or analysing his love. He loves her fully and completely, as much as his heart is able to. He takes his happiness from loving her, and from knowing that she loves him. He loves her with an immeasurable confidence, something he has never been able to achieve before. He loves her with a boundless certainty, something else that has often eluded him. When he is tired, or weak, or feels in any way under pressure, he takes comfort and rest in his love for her. He knows that everything about her, everything she is, has become a part of him because of his love. He would do anything for her.

_Author's notes: The companion piece to "Running Water"._


	16. Running Water

**Running Water**

She loves him as she loves the sunlight, the breeze on her skin, the sound of running water. She loves him for the steady home he gives her. She loves him for the constant variety he brings to her life. She loves him for his excitable nature and the way he talks so much. She loves him for his silences and the way he listens. She loves him for the way he can always calm her, and how sensible and reasonable he is. She loves him for getting spitting angry on her behalf, and for always standing up for her. She loves how trustworthy and reliable he is, and how well she knows him. She loves how he always finds a way to surprise her. She loves how shy he is. She loves his honesty. She loves how reliable and stable he is. She loves how he never takes her for granted. She loves him for loving her. She would sacrifice the world for him.

_Author's notes: The companion piece to "Boundless"._

_I wasn't planning on uploading these two for a while, but today I finally managed to order a truckload of FMA merchandise. Yesssss! God bless the internet! So, I uploaded these to celebrate. Don't ruin my happiness by failing to review, will you? D:_


	17. Dream

**Dream**

He has forgotten how to sleep.

Even now, after getting his body back at last, he is still in the habit of sitting quietly with his back to the wall, while Ed snores in dense unconsciousness, staring straight ahead of him and losing himself in thought. Somehow, it has never occurred to him that he ought to do anything else at night. It has always been a time in which to sit still and think, and to come to terms with the day's events, whether good or bad. Of course, he used to sleep, once, long ago, but he can no longer remember exactly what sleep is or how to go about it. In any case, he feels in particular need of contemplation that night.

And so, his bed sterile and crisp and empty, and Ed submerged in sleep not three metres away, he huddles in the corner and watches the moonlight creep gradually across the floor of the room, and thinks.

He doesn't realise morning has come for a long time. It takes him even longer to realise that Ed has woken up, and longer still to register that he is talking.

Al moves at last, and looks up, confused, startled. Then he gasps, and puts a hand to his neck. His whole body is aching from the lack of movement.

Wincing, he stands and stretches his limbs painfully.

"What the hell?" Ed asks him.

He glances over. "Huh?"

Ed gestures wildly, incredulously. "What were you doing sitting there?"

". . .Thinking," he replies, rather lamely, he realises.

"Why weren't you in bed?"

Al hesitates. The last thing he wants is to let his brother know of the problem he is having. Ed has a tendency to blame himself for everything, and it doesn't take much to provoke a frenzy of guilt in him. Any problem Al has with his body, he knows, Ed will doubtless attribute to a mistake on his own part.

"I was too excited to sleep," Al says finally.

Ed's brow clears and he smiles in relief. "Well, okay," he says, "but you'd better sleep tonight. It's bad for you to stay up all night, you know."

Al knows he is right- the last thing he wants is to damage his body when he only just got it back- and so that night he follows Ed's example, climbing into bed and lying determinedly still. It doesn't take long before Ed is asleep, stomach exposed to the world and drooling onto his pillow.

But only a few metres away, Al lies stiff and unmoving, eyes forced close, his whole body tense with the effort. He knows that lying still is the only way to achieve sleep, in theory, but has forgotten all the finer points of it. His mind is buzzing, and he feels terribly restless and can't prevent himself from fidgeting.

He lies awake all night.

Ed is pleased when he wakes the next morning to see his little brother in his bed on the other side of the room, eyes closed and breathing slowly. He gets up quietly and tries to leave the room without making any noise.

When he reaches the door he looks back over his shoulder and catches sight of Al, still in bed and in the same position; but with his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

Ed yelps.

Al blinks, turns his head slowly and looks at him. "Good morning."

Ed, slightly freaked out, but happy that Al is sleeping at all, cautiously approaches. "Sleep well?"

"Uh-huh," Al mumbles helplessly.

As the days pass, Al becomes filled with an increasing sense of futility. No matter how hard he tries, how many times he clamps his eyes shut and wills sleep to come, he is unable to get any rest. He feels himself gradually beginning to sag under the weight of the tiredness, the sawdusty feeling and the constant dull ache in the back of his head, the deep weariness reaching through his whole body, and watches his appearance in the mirror grow pale and his eyes bloodshot, ringed with dark hollows. The tiredness consumes him so that he can only sit in miserable silence, almost hoping to collapse from exhaustion, just for the few sweet moments of unconsciousness.

Eventually it becomes unbearable, and he at last swallows his foreboding and issues a plea for help, one bright, sunny morning that appears clouded to his drooping eyes. "Brother, I can't sleep."

Ed huffs in outraged agreement. "I know! Wasn't the wind _loud_ last night?"

Al crumbles.

But Winry, who is sitting at the table in silence, hears what Al says, and it worries her.

That night, as he sits, head bowed over his knees, on his bed, eyes closed purely out of habit, she comes silently into the room and kneels on the bed behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Startled, he almost cries out, but she puts a finger swiftly to his lips to quieten him.

She pulls him gently backwards until they are curled side by side. And then, as Ed snores in oblivion on the other side of the room, she begins to whisper softly over Al's shoulder into his ear, still holding him tightly, just explaining her day, talking about her work, chatting about the gossip she heard from her friends, discussing her plans for tomorrow, all in a sibilant undertone. He listens in a confused silence, occasionally responding to a question or providing an opinion, once in a while offering his own narrative.

And gradually the flow of conversation becomes a trickle, and he begins to feel very slow and heavy and comfortable in her arms. . .

He opens his eyes and it is bright, and sunlight is streaming in through the windows. Winry has gone, and so too has Ed, his bed swiftly and carelessly made. Al sits up, bewildered, unable to comprehend what in the world has happened, before catching sight of the clock on the table.

"Afternoon, Al," Ed says laughingly as he comes, still only pyjama-clad, his hair dishevelled and rumpled, into the kitchen.

Al glances at Winry on the opposite end of the table, but she doesn't look up to meet his eye.

"Tired, were you?" Ed is still talking.

A slow realisation creeps over Al as he understands what happened, and he has to think carefully before he answers. "Yes," he says eventually. "But it was mostly because of the dream I had."

"Was it a good one?"

Al looks at Winry. "Amazing," he says.

_Author's notes: I wrote this in bed, reeeeally late at night. I was shattered after a long day, but I knew that I couldn't go to sleep until I had finished the story, or I would forget all my ideas. And what was the story about. . . ? You can't imagine what it was like. They should make it into some sort of refined torture._

_I totally wasn't planning to upload this fic for like. . . ever. I MUSTN'T RUSH! I MUST KEEP SOME IN RESERVE TO TIDE ME OVER IF I HIT A DRY SPELL!!!! DX But I wrote four stories in the last two days, even though I didn't have any ideas (That's the beauty of drabbles :D) So. . . aw hell. Live a little._

_I only just realised a few days ago that I always write Ed as being either moronic, insensitive, sadistic or just generally useless, especially in this series. Oh well, it works nicely. So, here's some more moron!Ed for you :D_

_ALSO, (and this is of vital importance) may I just say a MASSIVE thank you to everyone in the whole world?! Srsly. This series has twice as many reviews as any of my other fics, and more than three times as many hits. That's awesome. I flipping love you all. Gatebabies. Now. (I am yet to think of a way to thank certain people who have been especially fabulous and encouraging and just made of unadulterated win, but for now let's just assume that you know who you are, and. . . expect something large and chocolate-covered.)_


	18. Piano

**Piano**

Winry has always loved the sound of a piano. She has never owned one, and only listened to music a very little when she was young, as it was difficult to get hold of, in Risembool. Even so, despite her lack of exposure to the instrument, she loves everything about it: the sound of each individual note; the way they blend and weave around each other and together, forming complex patterns and delicate tunes. She would enjoy watching people play even without the sound, observing the dance and chase of fingers across the clean, ordered black and white keys. And now that she has no more pressing worries on her mind, she decides finally to indulge her fantasies.

So she begins to save her money, little by little. Al contributes as much as he can, as soon as he knows what she's saving for- he once learned to play it himself, a little, he says in his typical humble fashion.

Eventually, after what feels like years to her, they gather the funds together to buy a tiny battered second-hand upright. It is horribly out of tune and scratched all over; but they hire one man to fix the inner workings, and another to tune the instrument. They work on it themselves as well: Winry repairing and replacing as much as she can of the rusty mechanisms that operate the pedals, and Al spending an afternoon fixing the body and the wheels. By the end of the day, the piano is sitting proudly, almost gleaming, in the corner of the living room. Al plays a smooth chromatic scale from left to right, running his hand up the keyboard. Winry fetches a stool from the next room and places it before their creation with a sense of immense satisfaction.

They stand back and admire the picture.

Winry can hardly wait to play it, but she forces herself to at least have dinner first. After this, she sits triumphantly at the piano with a "teach yourself" book she bought from the music shop along with it, and lifts the lid, producing a prolonged, professional-sounding creak that thrills her to hear.

It is then, however, as she tries for the first time to play the instrument before her, starting with the embarrassingly short piece on the opening page of the book, that she discovers she is not musical.

By the time half an hour has passed she is tired of persevering, and feels ready to fling the book, along with its self-satisfied little reminders to "be patient!" and "go slowly!" out of the living room window. She has not quite been reduced to hitting the keyboard with her fists, but it is a very close thing. She slumps over the instrument in hopelessness. The carefree dance between the hands and the keys, and the complex melodies she has heard on the radio, do not come easily, it seems.

And then Al comes in and sits cautiously beside her on the edge of the stool. He runs his fingers tentatively, wonderingly, over the keyboard, saying nothing.

Then he reaches around her with his right hand and begins to play the top half of a melody she has heard a thousand times.

She gasps with recognition, watching his fingers in fascination as they wander over the smooth cool keys, seeming free and playful but hitting each note precisely and exactly, each small sound forming a vital part of the tune. She lifts her hand in wonder and places it lightly over his own, following the patterns of the notes, tracing the movements of his hand and the music.

He takes her through it several times over, and then stops, and moves his hand away. Slowly, falteringly, she begins to play, picking up from where he leaves off. And this time he plays the other half of the piece with his other hand, providing a simple, steady base and counterpart for her delicate and dancing melody. Their hands move confidently across the keyboard, side by side, overlapping, their harmonies working together to fill the house with the nimble, whirling music.

And even when the piece is over, and the melodies come to an end, they don't move from the room for a long time.

_Author's notes: I have a feeling this would have been easier if I chose an instrument I actually know how to play. . . -.-; Well, it made me want to learn to play, so I guess I achieved something._

_I have sent several PMs and review replies to various people within the last week, and didn't get a reply for any of them. Now, either everybody on the internet has simultaneously decided to ignore me, or my PM system is down. I like to think that the latter is more probable. Just trust me when I say that I love you all, and actually I try to respond to every signed review I get. I may have to start leaving my replies in the notes at the bottom of the drabbles if this continues. Anyway, I think that "ZOMGGLOMP:D!!!!" basically sums up my feelings about the reviews you guys leave me. -luffs you all-_


	19. No Idea

**No Idea**

He remembers, with a mixture of horror and amusement, the first and only time he witnessed the birth of a baby. He recalls with a terrible clarity how he panicked, thinking that they were all about to die, how he knew so little about what to expect, how he fretted and wailed and generally made a liability of himself. And he feels the time moving inexorably forwards, marked with the changing shape of Winry's body, and senses the old, frantic fear creeping over him again.

He knows that he is older now, more responsible, and far more informed about these subjects. But he also remembers that last time, he had thought the same thing. Last time, he had been of the opinion that he knew all he needed to about the vague, far-and-away areas of pregnancy and childbirth, and had only realised that his meagre knowledge was next to useless, when it was too late to do anything about it, and a baby was on its way whether anyone else was ready or not. Last time, he hadn't expected to lose his head or forget all he had been told to do in these situations. And the possibility that the same thing could still happen all over again remains in his mind, and worries him.

It is made worse still by the fact that this is _Winry_, and she is carrying _his_ child. Much as he cares about Gracia and Elysia, nothing can match the concern he feels now. He cannot allow himself to be caught off guard this time. He must remain calm and focused, and he must assist to the best of his ability when the time comes. He doesn't want to imagine how catastrophic the results will be if he messes up.

His anxiety grows and swells along with the bump in Winry's stomach. He wouldn't have thought he had the energy to think about anything else, and yet he still finds the room in his mind to be fascinated by the process, by the curves and contours of her figure rearranging, her waist thickening, her spine adjusting to support the extra weight. Her habits change, too: what she eats, the way she sleeps, how she dresses, even her moods.

Especially her moods.

He wants to be prepared, to be able to know about everything that will happen in advance, to know this process back to front. He buys books, interviews as many people as he can think of about it, goes on a trip especially to see Gracia and ask her some of the most pressing questions, listening intently and jotting down notes while humiliated teenage Elysia squirms on the couch beside her mother. He even asks Ed- who can know what information his older brother has picked up over the years?- but his questions are met with a blank stare.

"How much do I know about _what_?"

He repeats himself.

"Why do you want to know about _that_?" Ed asks in disgust.

So he explains, briefly, his concerns.

Ed listens, frowning, head on one side. Eventually he says, "So you're worried because of that?"

A nod.

"Has it crossed your mind that you were only ten at the time, and bound to lose your cool?"

_Bound to_? A shake of the head.

"It was totally unexpected that time," Ed says incredulously. "We were really young, unprepared, easily frightened, and clueless. You just can't compare the situations."

An embarrassed pause.

"Look," Ed says, more kindly this time, "you've worried yourself stupid over this. You don't need to- you've got plenty enough knowledge to get you through. Probably more, actually- did you say you made _notes_? The birth will be difficult, they always are, but she knows you'll be there the whole time and do all you can to help, and that'll make it easier. And anyway," he laughs, "that's only the beginning. Have you thought about what'll happen afterwards? You're going to be a _father_. And I'll be an uncle," Ed says, as proudly as if this whole thing was his idea all along.

He gazes silently into his lap.

"If you're still worried, you'd better talk to Winry," Ed tells him.

He shakes his head frantically as he stands. "N- no! It's ok. I'm fine . . .Thanks, Brother."

He returns home late and full of thought that night, notes and guidebooks held precariously under his arm, and sits wearily at the kitchen table. It is true; he is no longer worrying about the birth, and feels confident now that their shared knowledge will get them through. But, he thinks, fretting mindlessly already, leaning forwards and covering his face with shaking hands, he has absolutely _no idea_ how to be a father. . .

_Author's notes: See, I told you I'd write more about the pregnancy :D Also, some more of moron!Ed at his very best. He really didn't help matters, did he? XD_

_Just to let everyone know, I have a complete TON of exams on the way, starting Wednesday next week. Don't be surprised if my updates slow, or even stop completely. I'm not dead- unless the pressure finally gets me- but an interent ban will probably be imposed, and in any case I really need to knuckle down. Oh the joy of exams. . . I feel the rapture overtaking me already. . ._

_Review? Please? The gap between hits and reviews is widening alarmingly. If Legendary Chimera, SomeGhol, Noseless Wonder, Salina M L and Dreams-United can find the time to review time and time again as I update (-glomps you all-), then the rest of you can surely manage to review once._


	20. Moment

**Moment**

Somebody told her, once, that there was a difference between loving a person and being in love with them. She had smiled and nodded indulgently- was it her mother that had told her?- but she had been far too young at the time to understand, too young even to think that love was anything other than a joke. She had probably gone to school the next day, still giggling about it, and told her girlfriends in the playground, and the girls had probably rolled on the ground laughing about it together, until something else distracted their fluttering attention spans.

But the words stuck, somewhere in the corner of her mind, and despite her original reaction, she is grateful to the person- it _was_ her mother, wasn't it?- that told her the phrase. She remembers it completely separately from the childish hysterics that accompanied it at first, which she sees now is something to be thankful for, as really the saying manages to sum up so much in so few words.

She has always loved him: when they were tiny kids, and she laughed at the prospect of marrying him, and made him daisy chains which she forced him to wear, and coaxed him into the river when he was too scared to jump, and wheedled him up a tree to fetch cherries for her; when they were older children, and she grew extremely jealous of his brand new penknife until he carved her name into a fallen tree trunk for her, and copied his Chemistry homework in exchange for a look at her answers to the Physics paper, and taught him the way to catch fish with his bare hands, in theory, and found herself with an inexplicable hatred for any girl that so much as breathed in his direction; when they were teenagers, and she threatened him with violence, and screamed bloody murder at him, and constantly criticised his actions, and cried herself dry for him.

But when she puts her mind to it, she can also recall the precise moment she fell in love with him: somewhere on the brink of adolescence, when he took her hands clumsily in his own, still inept at using his new, stumbling, clanking body, and told her no less clumsily not to worry, they were going away for a while, that was all, while the lake sparkled achingly brightly behind him, and the dust kicked up during the spar between the two brothers hung heavy and choking in the air. We'll be back, he said, we'll come back soon and we'll have our bodies back and things will be perfect again- and he pressed her hands tightly between his as if trying hopelessly to reassure her, and the bottom fell out of her world in one shattering second.

There is a difference, somebody told her once, between loving a person and being in love with them.

She couldn't have put it better herself.

_Author's notes: This story got rained on. Extensively. I lost about a quarter of the words on the second page D: Luckily, it was still reasonably fresh in my mind and I could rebuild it. But- gah._

_Yay for vague references to my other fanfics! Subtle self-promotion, see? (The reference is to my oneshot "Proposal", by the way)_

_Also, two almost insanely long sentences for your enjoyment :D_


	21. Exertion

**Exertion**

None of them ever expected this to be so difficult. They had heard a lot about the process, of course- or at least Winry had- and they had all been told countless times that it would not be easy; but nothing could possibly prepare them for the shocking reality of it. Winry, red-faced and sweating with effort, remained stubbornly in the room where it had started, refusing point-blank to budge, while the rest of them rushed around frantically, fetching water and painkillers and whatever else she yelled out a demand for, as quickly and quietly as they could, helping as much as they dared- for she was fiercely insistent that she didn't need them to wipe her brow or offer words of encouragement, thank you very much. Even though the business was long and arduous- and she could hardly pause for a rest halfway through now that it had started- she was determined to keep on trying as hard as she could. She battled her own creeping exhaustion as much as she did the strenuous and difficult nature of the task before her, and the pain it produced- but still she refused to let them help, saying that this was entirely her business, and she would see it through by herself. The embarrassment she would feel at being helped in _this_, however, was probably the main factor in her rejection of their aid, despite all her proud declarations.

She remained labouring for hours on end in this most difficult of tasks: bringing a fresh life and spark into the world; and the task grew harder and harder as time went on, and tiredness and frustration began to sap the energy from her bones.

Eventually, _eventually_, she slumped, her whole body limp, and it was over. Pinako, who out of all of them was the only one to fully understand what Winry had just been through, came forward to congratulate her, and offer her water, which she gulped gratefully.

The other two approached, slowly and cautiously, and bent forwards to examine the product of these hours of solid exertion. Winry, exhausted but face glowing with an inner radiance, picked up her creation and turned around proudly to show it to them.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she whispered. "Chromium-plated. My own design."

And they stared, speechless, at her as she cradled the metal limb tenderly in her arms and nuzzled her face against its cold smooth surfaces.

_Author's notes: Hands up if I fooled you into thinking she was giving birth XD_

_This idea has been kicking restlessly around in the back of my skull for a while now, and I was really happy to finally let the little bugger loose on paper. It wasn't all that great to write, though, and it's one of my least favourite pieces so far. Ugh. Writing is so much less fun if you have a specific goal in mind. . . Not that I don't want commissions! 'Cos I do. :D_

_. . . Right. Some of you may have noticed the anonymous review I got on the last drabble. "boring and pointless". . . "how can you fancy Al". . ."I have always imagined Ed and Winry together". . . etc. Thanks for that! Just a shame you were too much of a coward to sign it (too afraid to even leave a name on an unsigned review)- I would have sent you a top-notch reply. So instead I'm going to leave my comments here :D_

_What kind of person sees a fic of a pairing they don't like, clicks on it, READS IT (the review was on the last chapter), then leaves a review like that? I'm afraid that makes YOU the pointless person, m'dear. If you don't like a pairing, don't read it. That is an unspoken rule in this community which I thought everyone knew. Perhaps I should leave a note at the start of this series, although I can't be bothered to do it for the sake of one person who doesn't even have the decency to leave a name._ _"This review is from somebody that is not going to tell you who they are. Although you might somehow find out and I will be anoyed" If you don't want me to find out who you are because you're worried I'll lay into you, maybe it's best not to leave the review in the first place, sugar-lump. That's not how you spell "annoyed", by the way :D_

_A big thank you is also due for Noseless Wonder and Salina M L who both defended me against this person. Thank you. I appreciate it. Also, I just wanted to let everyone know that this series just got over a THOUSAND hits! That may not seem many to some of you old-timers, but it's a hell of a lot to a noob like me! Thank you everyone, and goodnight:D_


	22. Slice

**Slice**

He wakes suddenly in the middle of the night, yanked directly into complete alertness by the shocking realisation that the bed is cold, and that although the sheets are rumpled and her pillow flattened next to his, she is not there beside him, snugly filling the dents her weight has left in the mattress. He sits up, pulling the sheets with him to cover his chest, and peers around the room in confusion. There is no sign to show where she has vanished to.

There is always the possibility that she has merely gone to the bathroom, of course, but she would have to have been gone a while for the sheets to have cooled so much. All the same, he has always been a one for thoroughness, and he drags a dressing gown over his stubbornly awake frame, and pads through the blackness of the corridors to check.

Nothing. The room is empty and dark, and the clean white tiles gather every noise he makes and fling them back at him, far too loudly to be comfortable in the silence of the sleeping house. He closes the door hurriedly.

He wanders the wide, bare rooms of the top floor, avoiding the bedrooms but checking everywhere else in his suddenly uneasy search. Each room is dark and noiseless and deserted; and his own room, when he half-heartedly returns after his fruitless search, seems just the same as all the others; and it is cold, too, without her.

No, dammit, he is not going back to bed until he finds her. The prospect of creeping wretchedly back under the covers and shivering alone and silent, lacking her spark and warmth and companionship, is not in the least bit appealing.

He resolves to look downstairs. She has never found it easy to remain still, possessing an energy and a twitchy restlessness that manifest themselves in her occasional fidgeting and the way she works so diligently. Not only that, she has also been hungry as hell recently. Midnight snacks, he thinks, are not such a far-flung explanation to her absence.

But the kitchen too is dark and bare, and he shies away from the clean smooth surfaces and the hard freezing stone floor.

Maybe the living room?

As he turns to head in that direction, he hears a clanging sound from the other room, the obvious room, the only place she could be; why didn't he go there in the first place?

He opens the door to the workshop, and the busy sounds of clanking metal, along with a warm, soft yellow light, emerge and cut a bright slice of sound and radiance through the shadows and silence of the empty corridor.

_Author's notes: Also written in bed. I only write about sleep and beds at night XD I should write when I'm fully awake more often._

_Ok, so I got another anonymous review, and once again I would like to reply to it, so will have to leave comments here. First of all, I know the original review was not a flame. Did I ever say it was? Don't think so. . . -looks back over previous statements- Don't take my reply the wrong way. It's not that I can't take criticism. My only issue with the review is that the person criticised the pairing when I had clearly warned about it in the summary. I was feeling a little pissy that day, so I over-reacted and it all got rather out of proportion. My apologies for that. I take back most of the things I said, but I will stick by some things: namely, that if you don't like a pairing, it's your job to stay away from it. I hope that this issue can be resolved here, as I would rather avoid conflict where possible. As for the correction. . . well, I'm a grammar Nazi, I'm afraid. It may not be cool but it's not going to change._

_And I apologise for my overly long replies (the last one and this one), but once again that's just me._


	23. Doorway

**Doorway**

Ed is certain that both of them would hate him for it, but he can't help but feel amused by the mixed-up nature of their bedroom. On one side of the bed, a cluttered bedside table, covered with various pieces of metal, ranging from tools and bits of machinery to basic silver jewellery. A toolbox under the bed. A calendar, with every box crammed full of appointments and always covered with a hasty, wandering shorthand script. A dressing table, with pieces of paper all over it: hand-written letters torn hastily open, sheets of loose scrap notepaper covered in the same writing; but with pride of place given to a chipped, sky-blue vase filled with slightly wilting tulips. On the other side of the bed, a clean bare dressing table containing only a lamp and a glass of water, fresh every day. A stack of books under the bed. A notice board, barely visible beneath the photographs, arranges precisely at right-angles and all labelled, with date and location written carefully in a neat rounded handwriting on the back. A desk, with a pile of tatty, typed, official-looking documents- mostly still sealed- on one side, and another pile, this one of notebooks containing regular rows of writing, on the other; and with another photograph, this one framed, dominating the centre.

Ed chuckles, standing in the doorway and observing the contrast. It is probably better that they never discover how funny he finds this. He has a suspicion that his observations would offend them- not to mention how freaked out they would be if they found out that he has been examining their room.

But Ed's main reason for keeping silent is that his interest, and his laughter, would just be so difficult to explain.

_Author's notes: Not my best. Not by a long shot. DX_

_Exams are here. Joy of joys. -waves flags in celebration- My free time is divided between superfluous revision, massaging the muscles in my writing hand, which have all seized up with cramp already, and sitting hopefully at my desk, pen in hand, fanfiction notebook open at a blank page in front of me, and head entirely empty. I'm sorry. . . My brain space is all occupied at the moment. . . I even had a nightmare about my French written, and woke up screaming "YOU HAVE TO AGREE THE PAST PARTICIPLE WITH THE C.O.D WHEN USING THE PERFECT TENSE!!!"_

_. . .No. Really._


	24. Trivial

**Trivial**

And then it is his birthday, and he is fifteen, and they happen to be at home at the time as well, which enables them all to hold a party for him. She is thankful for that coincidence at least, because she knows that their lifestyle doesn't enable them to relax too often: they would never think of coming home especially for something so trivial as his fifteenth birthday.

He sits awkwardly at the head of the table, which is heaped high with food he can't eat and special-occasion wine he can't drink and candles that wouldn't burn him even if he stuck his hand in the flame, and there is nothing to show whether he is happy or sad except the sound of his voice. He thanks everyone for all they have done to make this into a normal party, and tries to appear as cheerful as possible; but he is only really able to watch the festivities, and not take part. He knows that he and his brother have been trying as hard as they can to achieve their goal, which after all is not an easy one in the least, but he can't help but feel weighted down with the thought that yet another year has passed without getting anywhere. He watches his brother consume vast quantities of food, and laugh raucously, and talk loudly and at length about their latest escapade; and try as he might, he can't help but feel distanced from the celebration before him, as though they are excluding him with their fervent attempts to include him- but that isn't fair, he knows they are trying their best-

And then she leans over towards him and kisses him fiercely on the side of his not-quite-face, in front of everyone, and seizes his hand, and tells him eagerly to open his presents.

_Author's notes: Ugh. NOT GOING WELL. Today has sucked. I dropped my ma-hoosive file containing ALL my revision notes onto the floor (in front of my whole class, might I add), and ALL the work fell out so that the classroom had a second carpet, and everything was nice and mixed up for my revision tonight. Just in time for my Maths exam tomorrow. Yay. Did I mention that this happened twice? TWICE. MY FILE VOMITED UP ALL MY PAPER (we're talking two years' worth of work for seven subjects here) TWICE. HOLY CRAP LIFE HATES ME. -kills something with a plastic spork-_

_Not to mention that once I finally sat myself down for the English Language paper today, stressed and pissed off already, I discovered that the exam had no creative writing question._

_Me: -sits down- Well, sorting out all those notes was SO un-fun, but at least I can write a nice story now and make myself feel better. :D -turns over paper- WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT?! WHAT THE HELL IS THIIIIS?!?!_

_. . . But nobody's interested in all this shit, so I'll just say: enjoy! -.-;_


	25. Love Letter I

**Love Letter (I)**

_Just knowing you're here I already feel better_

_Just feeling your touch I know I'll be fine_

_Just by holding my hand you make me feel stronger_

_Just keeping you here, old friend of mine_

* * *

_Remember that time? I was lying on my bed, and inside. . . I couldn't feel the will to carry on. You came to me and you helped me sit up. When you did that, I found my inner strength. Feeling that was what_ _made me carry on. I couldn't have done it without you. Without you, I wouldn't be standing here today.__

* * *

_

_Hand on my shoulder, hand on my brow_

_Voice in my ear, telling me how_

_Lift me and hold me and help me survive_

_My love, you make me feel oh so alive_

* * *

_I know that I'm blessed to have you. Nobody told me this, I just know. Who wouldn't want to have someone like you? You're better than all I could ever wish for. You've told me you'll love me unconditionally. You've promised to help me all my life. When I'm with you I can escape. When I'm with you the world is gone. I can fly high with you, go wherever I want. I can close my eyes and soar. You make me forget the world.

* * *

_

_I feel you beside me every day_

_I know that you'll help me to find my way_

_Walking in step, in perfect time_

_My love, I'm so happy that you are mine_

* * *

_Just knowing you're here I already feel better_

_Just feeling your touch I know I'll be fine_

_Just by holding my hand you make me feel stronger_

_Just keeping you here, old friend of mine

* * *

_

_Just keeping you here, good friend of mine_

_Just keeping you here, sweet friend of mine_

_Just keeping you here, true love of mine_

* * *

Author's notes (Might as well put these in straight text, as the whole piece is in italics): Fear my cheesy titles :D And yes, the (I) in the title DOES imply that there'll be a (II), and maybe even a (III) some day, so look out for that. :D 

Well, I wanted to include at least one poem, so: ta-da! Not too sure about it (as usual), but what the hell. Also, the format got reeeeeeally messed up. . . DX Drastic action was taken to implant verses into the poetry.

25th piece in the series!!! I don't really have a target, but I still think that 25 is a number to celebrate. :D


	26. Justify

**Justify**

He looks at his watch, scowls again, and decides that now they have definitely been gone long enough to justify his getting angry. He crosses his arms and glares out of the window, trying to ignore his stomach's persistent grumbling reminders. Ed is hungry- and when Ed is hungry, Ed must be fed. They went out to buy _food_ for him, dammit; but he wouldn't be surprised if instead they took the opportunity to go shopping together, or wander down to the river hand in hand, or share an ice cream sundae, or something equally sappy and ridiculous. That would be just like them.

Not that Ed minds them being sappy and romantic as a rule- in fact, he finds it rather cute, although he would rather die than admit it- he just happens to passionately loathe and despise anything that comes between food, and his ever-increasing desire for it. Although he has got no taller over the years, his appetite is one thing that has been growing. He has always been a great fan of victuals, but the recent changes in his eating habits have been rather alarming to observe. The others watched the process avidly, noting his temper becoming yet more volatile at every mealtime, and his definition of a serving size enlarging rapidly, as Edward Elric became a slave to his stomach. Despite it all, he has kept up his active lifestyle, and he exercises regularly, so he knows that there is nothing they can really say to prevent him from consuming all that he wants to.

He has made sure to flout this freedom; and rather than try to change his habits, they content themselves with quiet jokes, and laughing, not-so-quiet observations that would prompt an angry response from him- had his mouth not already been filled with food.

So he huffs, and sighs, and notes wretchedly that the sun has already begun to set, which will make their journey back to the house even slower. _Why _did he ask both of them to go when he knows only too well how they distract each other from the task at hand?

So that they could carry more food, his mind supplies. Ed ignores it.

It is true, though, how besotted they are. Ed never before imagined that there was anything on this world that could distract Winry from what she has always loved above all else- her work. He never once suspected Al to be the romantic type either. Throughout his whole life, he has been fairly certain in his judgements of the two people he knows better than anyone else. Throughout their whole lives, those two people have also been fairly sure about their own personalities as well. It is strange- no, it is almost inconceivable- that such a minor happening as a person that they have always known suddenly becoming something other than a friend to them, can change their behaviour so much.

Now, Al gets a soft, melting look in his eyes whenever he sees her; and Winry is willing to stop her work in order to go for a walk with him, or sit in the garden with him, or even just have a chat with him, for God's sake. Ed would have thought they had looked at each other and talked to each other enough times for them to no longer get all droopy-eyed and smiley over it- but apparently not. He doesn't understand it at all; but when he voiced this thought to the two of them, it was merely met with an unsettling smile and the disturbing assertion that "believe me, some day you will".

Ed's stomach rumbles again. He winces, and glances out of the window for the hundredth time.

And this time he sees them, finally, rounding the crest of the hill leading down to the house. Al is riding his bicycle, and the handlebars appear alarmingly weighed down, with bags of groceries hanging off both sides, and Winry balanced precariously in the centre, her expression flickering between laughter and fear as they begin to pick up speed.

Ed flings the window open and yells exasperatedly at the pair of them and their bicycle, free-wheeling down the slope to the house. And as he watches them slide to a gasping, giggling halt in the front yard, he thinks that, despite how strange and bizarre and occasionally frustrating their behaviour is, he can't find it in his heart to be angry at them for long.

_Author's notes: Written purely because the image of Al and Winry on the bicycle was haunting me and refusing to go away unitl I acknowledged it. I thought of drawing a picture of it, but I'm already hopelessly tangled up in a picture that involves a wheelchair. I don't need to draw any more pictures of impossibly difficult contraptions, thank you very much. So I wrote this instead._

_On another note, moron!Ed/food is my new OTP XD_

_On yet another note, today is a very special day. Like, really special. Today, I am celebrating the following: __1) The end of my exams. Booyah. __2) The arrival of my three FMA novels, and the shipping of all my other merchandise. Yay. __3) The anime con I am going to later today. I'm so excited! There are hardly any cons in my country. . . __4) Reaching 50 reviews. Woo! -luffs you all- __And, lastly, but probably most relevantly, 5) The one month anniversary of this series!!!_

_-wipes tear from eye- They grow up so fast. . ._

_Now, normally I don't do much to celebrate a landmark. Like, I leave a note here saying thanks or whoot or something. But today, as SO much awesome stuff has happened/ is about to happen, I just HAD to do something. And if you look on YouTube for "FMA 'Why Don't You and I': AlWin Tribute", you will find out exactly what :P_


	27. Tangible

**Tangible**

He recalls to himself the sensation of drifting, of bobbing, of floating aimlessly in a deep red sea, tossed on the violent wake of his brother's reputation. He recalls the sensation of being without direction, moving here and there among the waves, motivated only by the energy of his brother and their fruitless search, going wherever the currents propelled him. He recalls the darkness, groping blindly around for a light they dreamed of, and saw before them when their eyes were closed, but which only became tangible when they caught it in their hands. He recalls being so _close_- to their goal, to his brother, to _her_- within a few inches, a few senses, but being unable to come into contact. He recalls the eternity, and the endlessness, and the futility of their lives, centred wholly around the search for a myth.

Now, he is still floating in an infinite ocean, and his movements are still slow and aimless and drifting; but now he is hand in hand with a girl that brings light with her wherever she goes, and the myth is held firmly in his grasp, and the sea spanning out around him is a calm, sparkling blue in all directions, and although he lets the waves take him, he knows that should he need to, he can swim.

_Author's notes: Because I really love to swim. I thought it up at the pool a while ago, when I couldn't swim because I had to look after my little sister and her friend. I was reeeeeally bored (they were just floating around on giant novelty-sized floats), so I began to think vaguely about water and waves. And, yeah. This happened._

_HahahahWIN. Cons rule. I met Vic and everything. YESSSSSS. :D_


	28. Scorched

**Scorched**

He tugs her hand, and she steps nervously off the train into the bright light of Central, shielding her eyes, wishing she had thought to bring a sunhat. It is both windier and more crowded than she remembers, and she is careful to hold her light summer dress down with her free hand as he leads her through the pressing masses of people. They all seem so busy, she says as she passes them, like they can't wait to be somewhere.

He smiles. It's always like this, he tells her. Central is a place that everyone either desperately wants to travel to or is restless to leave, but where nobody is happy to remain.

I've been here before, you know, she says impatiently.

But all the same, she didn't remember how seething the place is, and she winces as yet another blue uniform knocks blithely into her.

He sees how uncomfortable she is, and leads her hastily towards the exit, only pausing to make the transfer of the singular hat they have with them from his head to hers. Soon they stand blinking in the open air, scorched and buffeted, taking a moment to cool off and observe the capital before they continue.

He takes her hand again and they set off once more, keeping to the cool, dappled puddles of shade cast by the trees and the white square buildings.

She allows herself to be led, gazing all around. Even though she has visited Central before, it still manages to knock the breath out of her with all its unadulterated life and harsh vibrancy, especially now, after everything has been shaken up. Even the heat is somehow different here. Back in Risembool it is just as hot, but the heat is slow and lazy, and clouds creep lethargically across the sky in a half-hearted attempt to block it, and the sunlight is thick and dense and streams sluggishly through the branches of the trees to land heavily, almost apologetically, on one's skin, and drag out the sweat so that it drips doggedly from every pore, coating everything in a salty liquid sheen. Here, the heat slices like a razor down through the cloudless sky from the full blinding furnace of the sun, and blasts directly into one's face in a pure colourless frenzy, and the relentless wind whips the moisture away from one's throat and skin, and the air is frantic and stifling, and dry as a bone; and heat is visible, and it is white, and it glances off every surface, relentless and intense.

He stops suddenly, and she is startled, for there is nothing especially noticeable about this part of the city surrounding them. There, he says.

She looks, and doesn't know where he means.

Right there, he insists, and he points. That's where.

She doesn't understand, because the building is just the same as all of the others, nothing important, how could something incredible have happened here?

You shouldn't go inside, he tells her, but she continues as if she hasn't heard, ducking under the tape barrier and entering the building in one swift movement. After a moment he follows, and joins her inside, where the air is still and dark and breathless, and the sudden change in temperature raises chilled goose bumps on their skin.

She advances fearlessly, runs her fingers over the countless patterns on the walls and floor, and imagines the blue light bursting from them, the leap and spark of crackling energy alive in the air, the two of them bracing the centre of the storm of equivalence. He stands near the doorway and watches her in silence.

And then she walks back over to him and takes his hand again, the warmth of her palm shocking against the brutal atmosphere in this place. Thank you for showing me, she says.


	29. Love Letter II

**Love Letter (II)**

_If I could sing I'd write you a tune_

_If I could paint there'd be portraits of you_

_If I could dance then you'd be amazed_

_But as it is I'll just tell you I want you.

* * *

_

_If I was able, I'd write you a sonnet_

_If I could then I'd make you a ring_

_If I was brave then I'd pour out my heart_

_But as it is I'll just tell you I need you.

* * *

_

_If I was clever I'd understand you_

_If I was beautiful I'd deserve you_

_If I was kind I'd be good enough for you_

_But as it is I just love you.

* * *

_

Author's notes: It seems like years since I uploaded the first letter. . . Maybe it's because so much has happened since then. Well, in any case, enjoy the bad formatting and strangely written verses of this piece!


	30. Wish

**Wish**

It was most unlike Ed to call her and give her information about their search and how it was progressing, no matter how petty and useless- but, on that day at least, call her he did.

She almost dropped the telephone when she picked it up to hear his voice, of all people's, jabbering in her ear.

You'll never guess, Winry, listen to this, Al just told me what the first thing he wants to do when he gets his body back is, honestly can you believe it, all this time and it turns out I've got a little sister after all, although now that I think about it I guess it would explain a few-

Ed?

Hi Winry.

Why are you calling?

I was just saying, Al told me what he wants to-

I heard you the first time Ed, just tell me already.

She didn't have the patience for this. Ed sounded as though he could be more than a little intoxicated. Prior to this, she had thought that there was nothing more insulting than being told nothing about their travels. She had been wrong. There was something still more insulting, and she was experiencing it now.

Only being told tripe like this.

Ed continued heedlessly.

He said- and here Ed interrupted himself with a fit of convulsive laughter- he said that the first thing he wants to do, not have a party or go home as soon as possible or anything _normal_ like that, is to- to eat apple pie.

Silence.

What kind of a girly wish is _that_?

Nothing but static.

Winry? Are you still there?

I have to go!

And with that she slammed the phone down as hard as she could and turned around, leaning against the wall with her hands over her face, breath choked in her throat. Tears squeezed themselves forcefully from beneath her clamped eyelids, and swelled out to trickle between her fingers, as she tried to contain herself. Her shoulders shook, barely visibly.

They were in Central on that momentous, world-shaking night, and once again Ed broke tradition and called her, his voice sounding strained and faint and hoarse with emotion, the connection crackling and fading so that it alternated between seeming a million miles away from her and right beside her ear.

It worked.

Winry never sent them packages- partly because she never knew which address they would be found at, but mostly because they didn't ask her to, and she feared that they would find it offensive, or patronising, or something. That was why they were so surprised when they found the brown cardboard box sitting on the threshold of their hotel room- with their names, followed by the address of Roy Mustang's military base, written carefully on the label, but no card or letter attached- and opened it to discover the largest, sweetest, most golden-brown apple pie in the world.

_Author's notes: Based on chapter 62 of the manga. I LOVED that bit. It just screamed AlWin at me._

_(For people that haven't read the manga, and who will obviously feel a bit confused at the moment, in that chapter Ed asks Al what he wants to do after getting his body back, and Al replies that he wants to eat apple pie. Ed laughs and calls him a girl and "Al-chan", and Al gets angry and says it's because Winry promised to make him apple pie :3)_


	31. Final

**Final**

Pinako stands still, unmoving, and watches the door swing slowly closed behind them of its own accord. Normally she would have turned away at once, tied her apron on in a businesslike manner and got straight down to work- it's best to keep yourself busy, it really is- but today she feels strangely unable to force her limbs to move. She indulges herself, standing there for a while longer and listening to the sound of bright laughter and young excited voices receding down the path, disappearing into the air.

Her granddaughter has gone to live elsewhere at last. And she has taken the boys with her.

Den approaches and nuzzles closely, fondly against her leg. She swats him impatiently away.

But the movement lifts her from her immobile stance, and she gazes around herself thoughtfully, wondering why everything feels so different from normal all of a sudden. It's not as though this is the first time they have left. The two boys have walked away from her house and their home a thousand times or more, and each time they did so, despite all their promises to return some day, it felt like the last. Winry too has left multiple times in the past: called out for emergency repairs, visiting friends in Central, training for her apprenticeship, even just accompanying the boys. So really, Pinako thinks, resolutely gesturing Den away as he pads over to her again, she has no reason to let it affect her any more this time.

Perhaps it is because this time, things really do seem final. The three of them are happy. After everything they have been through together, she knows that nothing, not war, not strife, not even death, could possibly separate them from each other. And now the three of them have left her life forever. They aren't going very far, they say, their house is just around the corner really, but she knows that three young, enamoured kids, elated with their sudden freedom, will hardly bother to come and visit an old woman like herself.

Den butts her hand with his head and whines. As Pinako finally acknowledges the dog, stooping marginally to scratch behind his ears, she thinks that maybe Den is more perceptive of her emotions than she had thought. Hell, maybe Den is more perceptive of her emotions than she herself is.

Because damn it all if the house doesn't seem massive and empty and quiet now that they've gone, when it never seemed so before, and damn those children if they haven't left echoes of themselves that still ring hauntingly through the suddenly enormous corridors.

"_I'm_ comforting _you_, Den," she says firmly as she pats the elderly dog fondly on the head. "Old women don't get lonely. You know that already, I'm sure."

_Author's notes: Commissioned by the wonderful Legendary Chimera, who requested Pinako and Den. I'm quite ashamed of this, actually. Legendary Chimera, it turns out, has a very appropriate name. She is a legend. She has been amazingly kind and supportive to me during my short time on this site, and always takes the time out of her busy life to read and review. And- get this- there is, as far as I can tell, just one of my fics that she has not reviewed. That may not sound too impressive, but have any of you checked out my profile recently? I have a LOT of fics. Not to mention how she puts up with my ranting over the PM system. And this commission? Ugh. I am not at all pleased with it. It sort of came out sounding like Pinako!angst, which is just disturbing o.O I'm sorry, Chimera! I hope you like it anyway! Hopefully your other commission will come out better -.-;_


	32. Splash

**Splash**

It is like an assault on his senses.

He lies flat on his back in the grass, spread-eagled as though dropped from a great height, immobile and relaxed, and yet his heart is racing. He shuts his eyes in a futile attempt to block out a tiny fraction of the outside world, which currently pours in upon him from all sides, and focus on his other feelings. If he empties his mind and lets his senses take over, he is able to lose himself for hours, content to lay still and just_ feel_, surrounded and swimming in the wonder of it. Risembool may not be dynamic, and he is the first to admit it is not bustling or exciting or exotic, but when he lets go of the small amount of control it has taken him so long to develop, and allows himself to spread out to his full extent, it seems as though there is a fresh thrill and spot of interest everywhere. He is fascinated by the scent of mown grass, and the subtle prickling sensation the plant provokes in his skin; the feeling of the early spring sunlight and wind, and the shivers they produce in his body, running delicately all the way down his spine. Some small nothing brushes lightly against his face, a feather-touch on the tip of his nose; he sneezes, and is delighted by the clearness it brings to his head.

He opens his eyes, and the barrage of observations increase staggeringly once again. Lying on her stomach beside him, stalk of grass held carefully in her hand, face half-hidden amongst the same damp green plants, she smiles slowly, understandingly, at him.

Because still, even after all this time, he can sense _everything_. And although it can be distracting and upsetting at times, not to mention confusing, at that moment, as she rolls over in the grass and he feels it _all_- the smooth, slightly cooled surface of her skin, and the light splash of her bright hair brushing down on his cheek, and the swift play of her slim hardened fingers across his patches of bare skin, and the intoxicatingly sweet softness of her kiss- he is profoundly grateful for it.

_Author's notes: Glomps can kill. No kidding. One of my friends tacklehugged my head really hard, and the arm of my glasses snapped clean off the next day. . ._

_On another note, I have converted two of my friends to AlWin, and one to Royai. YESSSSSS._


	33. Plunged

**Plunged**

"Al!"

"Mm?" He looks up idly from where he is sitting.

Winry stands pensively in front of him, holding her wrench loosely in her hands and fiddling with it thoughtfully. "I was just wondering . . . what happened last night? Where were you?"

Al stares at her in disbelief, but she shows every sign of being serious. "I . . . I was helping Brother," he says hesitantly. "You know that, Winry. You were there."

"We had plans to go out, Al."

He starts, unable to understand what she is saying. "But . . . his automail! You said the infection was serious. You said he needed rest and wasn't allowed to walk. You said we both needed to stay at home and keep an eye on him."

"You always choose him over me!" she shouts suddenly.

Al steps back, startled, afraid.

"It's always Brother this and Brother that. . . Why don't you think about _me_ for a change?"

Al gapes, shocked, his brain refusing to offer either explanation or solution to the situation he has been plunged into. He stutters uselessly. "But . . . the infection . . ."

"See?" she yells, furious. "Even now you're going on about _him_!"

Al's lips part and he stands aghast, tears brimming uncontrollably in his eyes.

Then he turns on his heel and flees from the room, unable to think.

Ed is lying on the sofa, and he starts and half-sits up as Al stumbles in. "What is it? What's going on?"

"I . . . it's Winry," he says, unable to quell the thick, tumbling sobs that force themselves from his throat.

Ed's face suddenly becomes sour. "Oh. Her again."

Al looks up at him, distraught, eyes wide in fear. "What?"

". . . Nothing," Ed mutters, lying back down.

"Brother!" Al cries in anguish. "Tell me!"

Ed hesitates, and then shoots upright, spins around and glares at him. "Why don't we ever spend any time together, huh? It used to be cool, you know, we could chat and stuff. . . Now you just go off with her all the time!"

Al's mouth falls open in shock. He is speechless.

"Whenever I suggest something it's 'no thanks, I can't, I'm going somewhere with Winry _again_' . . ." Ed continues heedlessly as Winry herself comes into the room behind him and stands, bracing herself, in the doorway, observing them both with a face like thunder.

"Just as I thought!" she shouts. "You ran off when I was talking to you and now here you are with him!"

Al moves, and takes a few steps towards her, trying to placate her.

Then he freezes, as-

"Where are you going, Al?" Ed asks dangerously from behind him. "I was speaking."

"But Brother, I have to talk to-"

"Don't bother explaining to him Alphonse, just get over here NOW!"

"No Winry, I need to say-"

"You're just going to walk away from me? This is exactly what I was talking about. . ."

"Don't say that, Brother! I'm sorry, I-"

"AL!"

"You have to choose, Al!"

"It's him or me!"

Al cries out, a nameless, wordless scream, and tumbles to the floor in a wild sweaty tangle of sheets and limbs. His head snaps backwards violently with the movement and collides with the floorboards, and his vision goes from white to black very quickly.

"Al?"

Winry sits up in bed, her voice containing equal measures of sleep and concern, the blankets having been ripped away from her body in one sudden movement. She switches the bedside light on.

At the same time, there is the sound of confused stirring from the next room. "What happened?" comes the muffled question. "Are you alright?"

Winry has already assessed the situation; she slips off the now bare mattress and hurries over to him, kneeling before him and taking his shivering frame into her arms. She mumbles nonsense in his ear, strokes his hair repeatedly, trying in vain to soothe him.

The door flies open and Ed has arrived, magnificently, on the scene. Al snaps his head around to stare at him in horror. "Brother! Your automail!"

Ed looks blankly at him. "Um, yeah," he says. "What about it?"

"You shouldn't be walking, Brother, your infection-" Al mumbles, and then looks suddenly, guiltily, over at Winry.

"That was weeks ago, Al," Ed says gently, walking over to sit cautiously on the floor beside them. "It's fine now. See?"

But Al isn't listening. "Winry, I'm sorry, really, I promise, whatever you want- and you too, Brother! I'm sorry for what I did. . ."

His words continue to flow, trickling weakly out to join the hot damp tears streaking his face.

"It's alright, Al," Ed tells him again, quietly and as comfortingly as he can manage. "It's ok. We're here. Both of us," and he puts his mismatched arms, one warm, one cold, around them as they huddle on the floor, Winry still rocking the youngest Elric, who cries silently into her shoulder, "we're both here for you."

_Author's notes: Ok, so. . . I hope you tell me that this one scared the pants off you to begin with, as that's exactly what I intended. . . :D I don't know if it's just me, but I have always been absolutely terrified of the prospect of one member of the trio somehow having to make some sort of hideous choice between the other two. . . In the end I decided that, although it's probably just me, I still couldn't go this whole series without addressing the issue._

_I had a hell of a job writing the last paragraph. Just look at the commas fly. Actually, there's just generally a lot of dialogue, drama, commas, adverbs, and people saying each others' names in this one, huh? XD;;_


	34. Love Letter III

**Love Letter (III)**

I still remember

The first time I kissed you

When we were so young

_We were so young._

And I clearly remember

How badly I missed you

As soon as you'd gone

_The moment you'd gone._

* * *

I don't think I remember

The day I first saw you

I liked you, I'm told

_So I've been told._

Though perhaps I remember

Because now I adore you

Despite your being cold

_You've become cold._

* * *

I try not to remember

How little I know

How you hide things; you lie

_There have to be lies._

I can't help but remember

How thick my tears flow

Because you two don't cry

_You two can't cry._

* * *

I have to remember

My own private promise

I'll tell you; I'll say it

_I promise I'll say._

And I'll always remember

Your one single promise

To come back some day

_I'll come back to stay._

* * *

_Author's notes: I kind of told myself I'd wait until each chapter got at least 2 reviews before uploading the next, but. . . yeah. Never mind. XD;;_

_It's another of these letters. Yay. :D_


	35. Compulsion

_IMPORTANT NOTE: This installment continues on from a oneshot, called "Proposal", that I wrote a while back, and will most likely only make sense if you read the previous story first._

**Compulsion**

"I'm sorry, Al," she says out of the blue as they sit together on the crest of the hill, pulling up flowers from the roots and counting the petals.

It has been two weeks since that hot summer day, heated still further by all the shouting and crying that took place between the three of them. Al has been sitting peacefully as she dissects the plants, observing the sky with a sort of focused interest, and as he turns his head to look over at her he seems vaguely surprised, as if he had forgotten she was there.

"What?"

"I'm sorry for laughing at you that time when you . . . you know," Winry says, already regretting mentioning it. She isn't sure why she has brought the subject up again- after all, she has already apologised about it. It has just unexpectedly occurred to her that when she said she was sorry the first time, it was with Ed lurking threateningly behind her with an expression that could have frozen water solid in an instant, and she had still been trying not to laugh. It's strange, she thinks, but she can't bear the thought that her apology was like that, and that will be the last he remembers of it.

"Oh." Al ducks his head, and Winry can't tell whether he is embarrassed or upset.

She realises with a start that maybe he managed to forget about it after all; and a hot spark of guilt flares in her chest as she thinks that she may have reminded him of the incident again just when he had got over it.

She fiddles restlessly with the hem of her dress.

"I just-" Unexpectedly she feels a compulsion to talk, to fill the vast silence that swells around them, and she finds herself, bizarrely, attempting to explain everything, all in her sudden desire for him to understand. "I thought that the way I said sorry before, it was like Ed forced me to-" _Ed did force me to-_ "and it doesn't seem fair. I just wanted to tell you, I really am sorry Al. Not because Ed wants me to be, I really am."

Al blinks, bewildered, as he processes this flood of information.

Eventually he speaks, his tone suddenly shy and hesitant. "Wh- why did you laugh at me?"

Winry has been asked this exact same question before, and exactly like before, she isn't certain how to answer. "I. . . I think. . ." She hesitates, and considers silently. "It's because I've already decided who I'm going to marry," she says at last.

"Who?" Al asks, distressed. "Not Ed?"

Winry hoots with laughter. "Of course not! I'd rather marry _Den_ than _Ed_," and she shakes her head in disgust, still cackling with mirth.

Al perks up a little at this. "Who then?"

"I haven't met him yet," she tells him matter-of-factly, "but he's tall and handsome and wears a suit, and he's smart enough to be rich. And that's not Ed."

Al shakes his head. It most certainly isn't.

"Mmh . . ." she says thoughtfully, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Actually, I suppose you're both smart- you and Ed- and I can't imagine either of you ever being tall," she says bluntly, gazing critically at him. Then her gaze softens, and she takes his hand. "But, I don't know . . . in time, perhaps. . ."

Al blushes the same colour as Winry's new lipstick, and smiles happily. There is hope, after all. In time, perhaps- and he closes his fingers, savouring the feeling of her hand over his- perhaps in time, he will start to look a little more like Winry's husband.

* * *

_Author's notes: Written because there is a lack of child fics in this series so far._

_Writer's block has eaten my soul and oozed lethargy all over me. I have been extremely busy over the last few months, and will continue to be for the next few. I have been struggling through myriad exams, and quite frankly have other things to do with my time. I have next to no motivation to write any more, and am tempted just to give up where I am. The ONLY thing I get back from my efforts to write and update to make it worthwhile is reviews. As such, please please please do leave a comment if you want to see more from this series. It is literally what gives me the motivation to carry on._


	36. Glass

**Glass**

Passing by the large full-length mirror in their bedroom, he catches sight of his reflection and stops, standing and gazing thoughtfully into the glass. Glancing up at him from the other side of the room, she sees him standing there examining his appearance. Without saying a word, she comes up and stands next to him, taking his hand and smiling up at him.

Then, as he observes the picture of him and her together, he wonders silently, guiltily, if maybe he is not what would be best for her after all- if she doesn't want someone who wasn't trapped in an empty suit of armour for more years than he can reliably count; and who didn't leave her behind, helplessly waiting, for all of those years; and who can't sense every tiny movement, every twitch in the delicate fabric of the world; and who doesn't still have trouble sleeping; and who doesn't still become teary-eyed and speechless when they kiss, because the feeling is just so _there_, so whole and complete and _perfect_; and who doesn't still wake up tortured and shaken with dreams of darkness and low wicked murmurs that dangle mockingly on the edges of his hearing, where he is hollow and empty and cold.

In short, he wonders if she doesn't want someone normal.

But then again, he supposes that she herself can hardly count as normal. After all, it isn't every day one finds a woman who smells of sweat and not perfume, and prefers wearing overalls and flat wooden-soled sandals to a dress and high heels, and has machine oil rather than make-up on her face, and carries a tool box instead of a handbag when she goes out.

He turns back and again examines their shared reflection, two people that together have seen hell and worse, and who now stand strongly, hand in hand. Maybe, he thinks, their differences- from each other and from the rest of the worlds- are something to be thankful for.

_Author's notes: OKAY! School is out! That means an end to exams, coursework, exams, assessments, exams, and so on, all of which have kept me insanely busy and prevented me from updating for so long. Unfortunately, it also means the beginnings of an extremely busy (so-called) holiday. I hope to find a way to update, but it will be difficult. Just know that I love you all, and that I really do try. I don't want to let you down. Equally__, please forgive the crappy quality of this update._

_On another note, be on the lookout for a new story, written by request of Don't Make Me Blue, the first chapter of which should be out later today. :D_


	37. Rain

**Rain**

Risembool is grey, and it is raining.

The rain pours from the sky in thick, solid clusters, each one the size of a small grape, and a single hard drop landing heavily in your face or trickling cunningly down the neck of your waterproof would be enough to make you thoroughly miserable. As it is, though, with the drops falling together in an allied attack, pouring, bucketing, so that the air seems clouded and scenery distorted, the misery is too dense to be absorbed, and it settles, gathering on the top of your head, down the sides of your face, in the folds of your clothes, on each individual eyelash; and it plasters your hair thickly to your head, and drips from the end of your nose. You become caked with it, choked with it, and it saturates you, your skin shrinking in the cold as your insides swell until you bulge with it. The rain is fast and hard enough to make a constant sound, a persistent clattering, and it shimmers and turns weightlessly in the sky in apparent flight up until it falls to just a few metres from the ground, when quite suddenly it collapses- splat- and shatters itself on the floor, flying in all directions in an aqueous suicide. The ground seethes with it, its surface softening, changing, rearranging beneath the onslaught. The water creates a second surface an inch above everything it touches, so that the world becomes double- reality and the rain.

Water gathers in hollows, runs in rivets, churns and sticks and clings. It soaks straight through your shoes within minutes, and after this conquest, your socks prove no barrier to it. It collects in your folds, on every projection and outcrop. It climbs doggedly up the legs of your trousers, so that your skin reels and shivers, and you feel on your thighs great sharp bumps that cling unashamedly to the wet fabric. It runs down you and up you and over you and through you. You become filled with it, and it chills you to the core.

Glancing up, you see the house in front of you, bracing the storm, hunched and battered beneath it, and you can almost feel the warmth and light radiating from it. You quicken your pace until you are running, all the way down the slope, and you are glad that she sees you coming and opens the door for you, because you don't think that you could have stopped even if she had not done so.

She follows you worriedly as you head wearily into the back room, questioning you in concern; you answer quietly, apologetically. She folds her arms and tilts her head to one side, standing in the doorway observing you as you wander around sopping wet, and she informs you solemnly that you'll catch cold like that.

You sit in the middle of the living room carpet and peel off your soaked clothes, one by one, and hang them to dry before the fire. She comes in to sit beside you on the damp floor and run her fingers through your dripping hair.

The heat swells thickly from out of the fireplace, spreading through the wet clothes so that water rises unhurriedly from them and fills the whole room with warm, swirling clouds of steam.

_Author's notes: Finally, something I'm pleased with. One of my favourite styles when writing is using the second person, and I finally have an excuse to use it in "Colours" :D_

_I'm off to camp tomorrow, and will be away for a fortnight. D: However, I intend to do lots of writing while I'm there. :D_

_I hope you enjoy this. The next one will be something a little different, and I look forward to publishing it._


	38. Purpose

**Purpose**

Al sits, squirming unconsciously, on the hard cracked-leather chair, and wonders whether it is humanly possible to feel any less comfortable. He knows without looking at himself that he is shrinking visibly beneath the close scrutiny of the man in front of him, as if the analytical, frank gaze is withering him. The man appears to be enjoying Al's discomfort, too, sitting at ease in his vast armchair, resting his clasped hands on the enormous heavy desk in front of him, and silently observing him through dark narrowed eyes.

Al is unable to see the point in this. He has been summoned here for a "discussion- an interview, if you will", but so far it has seemed like nothing more than an over-glorified staring contest, which he himself is most definitely losing.

Eventually the examination comes to an end, and the man looks casually aside, turning his disinterested gaze to a lone sheet of paper lying on the desk, picking it up and scanning it with a mildly bored expression.

Al is beginning to feel rather aggravated by this behaviour. Roy Mustang seems to have become still more confident and annoyingly full of himself since his most recent promotion- and his fondness of making others feel uncomfortable has evidently remained just as strong over the years.

After a few more minutes of silence- during which Al gradually slides still further down in his chair in a vain attempt to escape from the smug sense of satisfaction that wafts across the desk towards him, clearly indicating how much fun the other party is having at the expense of his integrity- the Flame Alchemist finally decides to speak.

"So then, young Elric. Your brother tells me you've been seeing Miss Rockbell."

Al almost falls out of his chair. Of all the things Mustang could have said, he had not expected that.

Once his incoherent stuttering has slowed a little, Mustang raises a sculpted eyebrow and looks questioningly at him.

Al realises at last that the man is waiting for a response. However, he doesn't feel quite able to string together a sentence with all the words in the correct order just yet, so he closes his mouth and merely nods.

"Charming thing. How long has it been now?"

When Al gets his answer out, Mustang looks vaguely surprised. "That long? Tell your brother to be more punctual with his news bulletins next time, will you?"

"Y- yes," Al manages. He wonders whether he should add, _sir_.

"Ah well, too late now, after all. How are you two then?"

"Good," Al says warily. He doesn't trust the man one tiny bit. The more innocent Mustang appears on the outside, the more schemes and ploys are simmering and brewing beneath his neat sharp crop of hair- still without a single grey, despite his age.

"Did you hear of my promotion? And-"

"Yes. Congratulations."

Mustang bobs his head, smiling. The smile unnerves Al still further. It only serves to convince him that something is going on- some sort of plot that he is unaware of.

"How are you finding your new home?"

"It's nice. Smaller than it looks. Close to Granny- we visit sometimes."

"Your careers?"

"Winry's doing very well. She's sort of famous in the industry."

"Life's going well?"

"I'd say it is."

"Do you love her?"

There it is.

Al goes scarlet- not so much from embarrassment as from the abrupt nature of the question. He had seen something coming a mile off, had known all along that Mustang's friendly, detached questions were nothing more than a front, a way to disguise the important, and in all likelihood much more personal, questions that were coming. Al had thought himself to be one step ahead, to be able to work that out. But he never would have expected that question to fall out of Roy Mustang's mouth.

That mouth, having performed its primary function, is closed now, and its owner observes him evenly. He fights to keep control of himself. Mustang will just love it if the question makes him flustered again. The older man has always gained an immense amount of entertainment from placing Ed on the spot and watching him squirm; and it seems now that for him, either Elric will suffice for this purpose.

So Al straightens his expression out hastily, and when he replies his voice is perfectly steady. "Of course. I love her in a way I didn't even think was possible. I can't imagine living without her."

Mustang obviously feels a bit discomfited, but does his best not to show it. "Good grief, already? I remember, when I was your age, it was parties every night and a different girl-"

"- as your date for each one," Al finishes for him. He's heard this before: namely, when flushing, breathless Fletcher Tringham made the mistake of travelling to Risembool to inform them of his recent engagement, shortly after reaching his second decade of age. Mustang had spluttered in horror down the telephone upon receiving this news from the Elrics, and had dashed down to their home in person in order to deliver the very same speech to the poor young man, who- having never met the Flame before in his life- was more than a little taken aback.

Al, on the other hand, has an answer in store for this argument.

"But you don't do that anymore- do you?" Artfully, he tinges the words with just the right amount of wide-eyed innocence.

Mustang makes the show of ruminating, but they both know that the statement is correct. He doesn't. Not anymore.

"It's the same for me," Al tells him. "I just got that feeling earlier than you, that's all."

"I could have you arrested for harassing a military official," Mustang mutters, clearly not enjoying the feeling of having been beaten- and yet Al still sees, even now, a smug glint in the other man's eyes. "You really mean it then."

"Yes," Al says, talking more to himself than anyone else by now. "I love her and I want to be with her, and . . . and I'm going to ask her to marry me," he says, not straightforwardly, not defiantly, not even as if forming a decision, but as if suddenly, finally, recognising a truth that has been staring him in the face for years.

Mustang leans leisurely back in his chair and smiles a slow, satisfied smile- and Al realises at last that, incredibly but perfectly reasonably, making him realise that truth is what this entire meeting has been about all along.

* * *

_Author's notes: MUSTANG!! Look! It's Mustang! 8D I really don't write him often enough._

_Why doesn't Mustang talk to Al more in fanfiction, anyway? I mean, sure, Al isn't in the military, but it's not as though that's the only connection the brothers have with Roy. And to be honest, I have the feeling that setting Mustang up against Al in a conversation is far more interesting than when he's set against Ed._

_(Special note to Legendary Chimera: Next chapter up will be your commission. I apologise once again for how shamefully long it's taken me to upload it. X.X)_


	39. Sharp

**Sharp**

"An invitation?" Izumi asks out loud, sitting at the kitchen table with the letter in one hand and the meat knife she used to open it in the other, dark eyes narrowed as they scan the lines of handwriting. She reaches the bottom of the page and quirks an eyebrow, the closest thing to surprise that her face ever registers.

Sig plucks the envelope from off the table in front of her as she ponders, and examines the front. "The Elric brothers?" he asks, recognising the handwriting despite all the huge differences it has gone through over time.

Izumi nods once, sharply. "It seems that Alphonse has finally realised it would be a good idea to marry the girl he loves," she says brusquely, still examining the sheet of paper, stony-faced. "He's inviting us to the wedding. Oh, and they're having a child."

"How long has it been?"

"Not long," Izumi says, turning the letter over as if expecting to find more information on the back, despite the signature on the bottom of the page. "No . . . just a few months, I think."

Sig takes a couple of steps toward the table, then stops.

"The wedding's five months from now, on the seventeenth, dear," she says simply. "Can we go?"

He crosses the room quickly to find and flick through a large black diary on the counter, planting a finger solidly on the date when he finds it. "Yes. We're free. Is it just one day?"

"They're asking us to stay for a week."

"We can go," he says.

"I'll have to dig out my good clothes again," Izumi mutters as her husband comes to stand beside her once more. "I wonder where they've buried themselves this time. It'll be a hassle getting them clean."

"What about gifts?"

"We'll have to go shopping, I guess." And she sighs. "That means going into the city. . . What a bother," she grumbles, making to crumple up the letter before hesitating and then folding it neatly back into the envelope.

Sig takes it when she hands it to him and stands for a moment, holding it between his enormous hands. "They'll probably be expecting you to make a speech," he says.

And, at last, Izumi smiles.

* * *

_Author's notes: Commissioned by Legendary Chimera, who requested Izumi and Sig. Shamelessly late, and shamelessly short. -hides her pitiful self in shame-_

_Who here is excited about the next chapter of FMA coming out soon? Because I am! I'm getting really impatient, though. DX_

_On another note, it's my birthday in exactly a month's time, and I just got 100 reviews! 8D_


	40. Reception

**Reception**

She sidles up to him and takes his arm, giggling, as though they are nervous teenagers on a first date and not newly married, husband and wife. She takes his hand, their fingers interlocking, and kisses him again, just because she can. Then she stands on tiptoe and leans up as he bends marginally, so she can whisper in his ear.

"Have you seen Mustang?"

He glances around. Mustang, adjusting his tie almost unconsciously, is letting his eyes roam openly and appreciatively over the varied assortment of female guests, from the three young bridesmaids- none of whom seem entirely comfortable in their long skirts and sleeveless bodices- to a cluster of Winry's school friends, to, lastly and with a guilty start, Hawkeye, who also appears to have noticed his wandering gaze. He chuckles sheepishly as he sees her glare and makes some excuse; she withers him with her eyes before firmly taking hold of his arm and steering him away.

On the other side of the room, the newlyweds try not to laugh.

Ed too, Al notes, seems to be giving the room a quick once-over, his alert gaze scanning intently around for points of particular interest and appeal. Eventually it settles, and he stares, slack-jawed, at what is clearly the most attractive thing he has seen all evening. He looks nervous, as though he dearly wishes to approach and become better acquainted, but feels that it wouldn't be appropriate, and would result in a telling-off. So he stays where he is, fidgeting in his stiff new suit, and pretends not to have been affected, although his eyes betray him, constantly flickering across the room to land on the source of the lure he so clearly feels.

Ed is eyeing up the buffet table.

In fact, Al could and would have stood there for a long time, just holding the hand of his wife and observing the guests, had Nelly not threaded her way through the crowd and over to the couple at that moment- after practically having to fight herself loose from the ever-persistent attentions of a tuxedoed and hopeful-looking Havoc- and distracted Winry's attention with her excited congratulations.

Al himself is in turn lassoed by the Tringhams, and he smiles and nods his confounded way through Fletcher's tumbling, confusing manner of speech as the young man introduces his fiancée- who is, it turns out, dark, plump, and pretty- while Russell stands, disinterested and a little embarrassed, behind the pair. After Fletcher, having happily delivered more information about his wife-to-be than it seems possible for anyone to contain, has finally run out of sentiment and moved away, Russell wearily explains to Al that his younger brother is always like that, these days, and that it would be wise- although in all likelihood futile- not to bring the subject up again.

After this encounter, Al feels obliged to make the rounds of the room, and soon ends up sucked into a whirlpool of blue-uniformed bachelors- all of whom appear to be asking him for advice as to how in the world he _does_ it, he's so young and she's so pretty, it isn't fair- whose clutches are nigh impossible to escape. In the end he is rescued by Granny Pinako and Izumi, both of whom appear to be feeling nostalgic- which results in the two women sharing a merry time swapping various anecdotes about him over his head, some of which he has mercifully managed to forget, and all of which he would like to.

What with this, and various other humiliations, it is difficult for him to continue observing the reception, and soon he gives into the tide and allows the crowd to pass him freely around between them. This means that he is unable to watch several happenings which he would have enjoyed witnessing. One of these is Roy Mustang's two brief flirts: first with a pretty girl, a client of Winry's; then with a sudden violent death as he is abruptly faced with three large metallic items, ranging from tools to prosthetics to weaponry, held alarmingly close to his face by three equally pissed-off females.

Another incident is Fletcher's good-natured attempt to acquaint Winry with his fiancée- and his descent into a state of shock after Armstrong overhears the endeavour and tears off his jacket in enthusiasm as he triumphantly declares that such love is inspiring. Al would have been extremely amused to see this exchange, and the results it produces, as the poor young Tringham sits dumbstruck in his chair whilst having to be fanned, brought glasses of water and be patted reassuringly on the back by his brother, his girlfriend, and any other nearby sympathisers that happened to witness the event.

However, out of all the incidents he missed, what Al would most have liked to watch- and what he most mourns not having been able to, when he hears of it later- is the slow, gradual process by which Ed's focus of attention shifts from the formerly oh-so-alluring buffet table, to a certain young bridesmaid with sparkling green eyes and square black glasses and soft brown hair; and the difficulties he encounters when attempting to ask her, as privately as possible, if "maybe, perhaps, when you've got nothing better to do, we could go somewhere- to Central or something- just so you can help me with my research, of course."

* * *

_Author's notes: Wow, look at the cameos fly. XD Hooray for random hints of various side pairings! The light Royai and Ed/Scieszka included here is experimental- there won't be any more of that in this series (unless requested), so if you don't like it there's no reason to worry. :3_

_Reviews for this chapter would be especially appreciated._


	41. Kiss

**Kiss**

She kisses him, once, on the side of the mouth, swiftly and without thinking about it- without even deciding to do it. She pulls back just as swiftly, a hot blush flaring instantly across her cheeks and nose as she realises what she did. She glances away and off to one side, and picks up some tool or other- as though that will somehow distract her from what happened. She does not regret kissing him- even though it was thoughtless and spontaneous- but his response, which was to pull backwards without a sound escaping him, is enough to make her feel embarrassed and stupid.

She supposes it isn't surprising. It's not as though their surroundings speak of romance and first kisses. In the workshop, over a disembowelled automail limb, directly after she finished ranting about his older brother's carelessness? It was certainly a strange moment to pick.

After a moment, she dares to look up at him again, and her stomach twists sharply as she realises that he is still looking at her, head on one side and his gaze direct.

At any other time, she would have asked why he was staring. Right now, however, it is fairly obvious.

She fiddles restlessly with the tool in her hand, until the silence in the room becomes unbearable.

"I don't know!" she blurts out. "I. . . You just got your body back, and I- I suppose I kissed you a couple of times in the armour, but it's not the same! That is, it's not like. . . I . . .

"Um."

Her ranting ceases. Her feeling of panic increased with every word that spilled from her mouth, but it multiplies beyond control now that they have, so suddenly and without warning, dried up. "Um. . ." she says again, feeling that although her speech did nothing to help matters, she really ought to reach some sort of conclusion now that she has got this far.

He observes her steadily, expressionless. "You have oil on your face," he tells her.

She moves, makes to rub her cheek briskly with the back of her wrist-

And he takes her chin gently in his fingers, lifting his other hand and slowly wiping the smudge away with his thumb.

When she moves forwards to kiss him again, his hand still lingering tentatively at her face, it is most definitely a conscious decision.

* * *

_Author's notes: OMG A PROMPT UPDATE WTFBBQAOL._

_Yeah. I had some spare time tonight- so I updated! 8D I know it's really short, but. . . shhh._

_Written because OMG, I suddenly realised that I haven't written about their first kiss yet! D: Can't put up with that, can I?_


	42. Late

**Late**

Winry prides herself on never leaving a job unfinished. She has always hated to walk away from any task, no matter how arduous or menial, when there is still more work to be done on it. Even when she manages to tear herself momentarily from the chore at hand, if only go to the bathroom, she finds it difficult to prevent herself from thinking endlessly about the half-a-lasagne, or the jumble of wires, or the semi-written letter, or whatever it is, lying abandoned and unfulfilled on the table. Although she tries not to let the thought bother her, a picture of the poor unfinished item swims almost plaintively into her head, and the image needles and worries her, and makes her feel uncomfortable and ill at ease.

However, even these moments are rare, as most of the time she is unable to bring herself to put her work down anyway. It is not worth it. The sense of satisfaction she gets from completing a task in one go makes up for the tiredness it produces in her, anyway.

So, finding herself midway through plotting out the wirework of a new left foot for the boy down the road when she heard Al calling her to dinner, she yells down that she'll be with him in a moment, and continues working, at an increased speed.

Finally she unbends herself from over the workbench, stretching out her spine and shoulders with a satisfying creak, lifts the magnifying lenses from her eyes and switches off the bright overhead lamp. _Done_.

She makes her way to the kitchen, sighing in relief and rubbing her eyes. It has taken her a little longer that she expected, due to some problems with the ankle joint, but she isn't all that hungry, so she can only be a few minutes late.

She walks into the kitchen, and stops short at the sight before her.

Al is sitting alone at the table, staring straight ahead at the door, a number of untouched dishes sitting mournfully on the clean tablecloth before him, his chin resting on the heel of his hand. He sits up eagerly as he catches sight of her. "Winry!"

She doesn't reply. Her eyes are wide with confusion.

"Um, I waited for you," he says meekly, gesturing around him. "It might be a little cold though. . ."

"Where's Ed?" she asks him.

He winces slightly, apologetically. "He's already eaten and left. Sorry Winry, I couldn't-"

She huffs in outrage, grabbing a chair and sitting angrily. "Couldn't he have waited just a few minutes for me to finish my work? Honestly, that man. . ."

Al frowns in confusion. "A few minutes? It's been forty five, Winry . . ."

She stares at him, silenced at once.

"Didn't you realise? Aren't you hungry?"

She opens her mouth to answer, but her stomach provides an affirmation for her. She puts her hand on it in surprise. "I hadn't noticed. . ." She looks up at him. "You waited all this time?"

He shrugs it off, clearly embarrassed. "We ought to eat together."

Her face opens up into a grateful smile. "Thank you," she says.

She moves towards him, and they meet flawlessly across the table.

Winry has always hated to leave a job unfinished. Sometimes this trait causes trouble, as it is so easy for her to forget herself. But sometimes, she reflects silently to herself then, the quality can have its own, very beneficial perks.

* * *

_Author's notes: I am like this myself- very much so, in fact. It's kind of nice for a Hitchhiker's fan like me that the 42nd installment in this series is a very personal one for me. :3_


	43. Biscuit

**Biscuit**

She has been baking; the warm sweet smell of dough and butter and chocolate chips fills the kitchen to bursting point, and then oozes beneath the door and swells out into the corridor to waft enticingly through the many rooms of the house. It even reaches his study, where he makes a valiant effort to resist the lure of the scent- but, inevitably, it proves too tempting to resist, and he follows his nose to the kitchen. Knowing that she will in all likelihood prefer not to be disturbed, he stops himself from going in and merely lingers in the doorway, gazing as inconspicuously as possible around the door, which hangs slightly ajar. He sees her briefly, standing at the table with a recipe book in her hand and a smudge of flour on her face, poring over the pages with an expression that speaks of intense concentration.

Even this brief glance is enough to put a certain small smile on his face as he returns to his room, and the expression remains on his lips as he works.

Twenty minutes later, he returns to the kitchen, and is greeted with the not-so-accommodating sight of her back as she stands at the sink washing up, a tray of biscuits cooling on the table beside her.

He glances at her, then at the biscuits, then back again. Then a childish idea comes into his head; he grins, and pounces without pausing to think.

His movements are faster than her reactions, it seems: by the time she has turned around, the biscuit has disappeared into his mouth.

She yells with rage and makes an involuntary motion with her hand as if flinging something at him; he ducks, and a look of pure fear flashes over his face- before they both realise that her hand is empty, and her trustworthy weapon has been left on the workbench, leaving her unarmed and relatively harmless.

She flicks washing-up bubbles at him instead, and they laugh, because just for a moment it is like old times.


	44. Song

**Song**

skin twists

beneath the wide arch of water

and the hard plastic sweats a cool clear liquid

and thin streams tendril along the floor

* * *

hair turns

amidst the fine spray of droplets

and the square white soap expands in her fingers

and air flows beside water

* * *

lips move

around long sweet syllables

and hot breath becomes steam and sound

and notes fly from the cellophane walls

* * *

because today, her arms wrapped

snugly around the wide warm swell that is her stomach,

she is happy.

* * *

_Author's notes: Has "Colours" seen a poem that isn't a love letter before?_


	45. Anniversary

**Anniversary**

The day creeps up on them without their noticing, and before they know it, there is only a month to go until their first wedding anniversary.

"We ought to do something," Al says, the surprise evident in his voice as he stands in the kitchen lifting up the first flap of paper on their calendar to observe the month to come. Winry, equally taken aback, agrees.

Ed wanders blearily into the room a few minutes later, dragging the heel of his hand across his face; he has pulled a chair out from under the table, sat down heavily and dumped his head on the table before he notices them. He raises his head and peers owlishly at the pair as if he has only just woken up- which, as they both realise, is probably the case.

They continue their discussion, punting the suggestions across the table to each other, and don't bother to explain. He seems content with being ignored, having worked out the topic of the conversation almost immediately, and merely watches, his sleepy, honey-thick stare travelling back and forth between them as they offer up propositions to each other; observing them as their ideas grow more and more extravagant, their requests increasingly splendid and lavish- and _impossible_, he thinks, and _expensive_.

Eventually he feels obliged to step in and put a halt to the exchange before the sheer improbability of their plans grows large enough to crush them all. "Don't you think that's a bit over the top?"

They fall silent at once and stare at him, not so much out of shock at his statement as because over time they have begun to severely doubt his consciousness and ability to form words.

Surreal as it feels to be asking Ed for advice on her romantic endeavours, Winry feels that this time it is necessary to make her point. "Then what do you suggest?" she pouts, putting her hands on her hips and glaring pointedly at him, daring him to respond.

Ed blinks once or twice, also unable to believe that she has asked him such a question. "Well, "he says hesitantly, "you should lay off all the swans and doves and lilies and all that crap, for a start. I dunno, something simpler than that would be better- more realistic- and you know, do you really need all that stuff to say things to each other? Aren't words enough?

"I mean," he interrupts himself as if he has just thought of something, "not that you don't talk or anything, but you could have a ceremony or something, and renew your vows- maybe even write your own, specially. Something like that," he finishes nonchalantly, reaching past them for the fruit bowl on the other side of the table.

He is halfway through his apple by the time he realises that they are gaping at him, unmoving. "What?" he asks, the fruit dangling precariously from his fingers.

Winry pauses for a moment to assemble her brain into working order- then turns to Al, who still appears stunned. "Well then," she says in amazement, "I never thought I'd say this, but it looks like we should ask Ed for advice more often."

* * *

_Author's notes: Written for a laugh, mostly. XD_


	46. Balloon

**Balloon**

Finally reaching the peak of what seems to her like a mountain, she stops, more out of breath than she would like to admit, and turns around. He is struggling painfully after her, step by step up the slope of the hill, clutching determinedly onto a ratty piece of string attached to an already slightly deflated balloon. In his other hand he carries a large cloth bag, which he is dragging along the ground behind him. He is red-faced and wheezing ever so slightly, but doesn't look up, keeping his gaze fixed on the grass as he drags himself the last few metres towards her.

She waits until he is standing, panting for breath and looking intensely grateful that the hill has finally ended, beside her. Then she puts her hands on her hips and huffs. "Hurry up!" she announces. "We've only got ten minutes to get home, you know. Auntie Trisha said."

He gazes pleadingly up at her.

She scoffs pitilessly and advances to take the bag from his hand. The unexpected weight of it catches her off guard, however, and she overbalances. Her foot skids in the grass, her ankle wrenches sideways and her knees twist, leaving her planted, startled, on her behind.

"Winry!" He scrabbles anxiously forwards and lands on his knees beside her.

She blinks. "That's _heavy_," she says in slow surprise, looking at the bag where it fell haphazardly to the ground, spilling the many multicoloured toys and sweets, the trophies from their afternoon at the fair, into the grass.

He leans worriedly towards her. "Are you alright?"

Her brows draw together and she frowns in suspicious confusion. "What's in there?" She flings herself forwards onto her hands and knees and rummages through the bag, apparently having completely forgotten her twisted ankle and bruised pride.

He shuffles awkwardly around to join her. "Um, I think I know-"

She withdraws a very large, very heavy leather-bound book, and then she knows too.

She glares at him in exasperation. "No wonder you're being so slow! Where did you get this?"

He shrugs bashfully. "There was a second-hand book stall. They had all sorts of things. It's the history of Western alchemy, Winry, look, it's got everything from the Philosopher of the West right through to the modern day. Brother will be jealous he couldn't come and get one too!"

Winry can't imagine why.

"It's even got some theories about transmuting without a circle! I mean, those are only rumours really, some people don't think it can be done, but it's amazing, isn't it?"

It is easiest for her to just nod.

He smiles excitedly as he turns pages, his eyes scanning the text and strange diagrams intently, and appears entirely too settled for her liking.

Immediately, she leaps to her feet and seizes the balloon from his slackening grip. "Come on, Al! You can read it later!"

He looks broken-heartedly up at her, and for a second she feels like the cruellest person in the world—but she steels her resolve. She'll be damned if she'll let his huge liquid eyes make her late home. "Come on!" she says again.

Mournfully, he begins to pick up their scattered prizes, stowing them away in the bag while she stands dominatingly over him and taps her foot. Finally, he picks up the enormous book, but before he can do any more she has snatched it out of his hands.

She tucks it firmly under her arm. "I'll carry it."

He starts, taken aback. "Why? I mean, you don't have to-"

"I want to," she says shortly.

And that is the end of that. Without saying another word, she turns on her heel and proceeds down the hill in an upright, almost stately manner that is ruined by the large, cheerfully red balloon bobbing in the breeze above her head.

* * *

_Author's notes: Happy birthday to me! 8D_

_This was written for my good friend Hannah (thetinylittlepixie on deviantART- go and see her gorgeous AlWin pictures and then try and tell me she isn't awesome), who requested child!AlWin involving red balloons. This one's for you. :D_


	47. Fracture

_WARNING: This story contains spoilers. Please do not read unless you have watched all of the anime series, as well as the movie, "Conqueror of Shamballa"._

* * *

**Fracture**

It is too late now, she knows. It is too late to get him back; too late to change his mind; too late to prevent herself from falling impossibly in love with a person who was not only oblivious and distracted at the time, but who is now most certainly unavailable, in every sense of the word. She ought to have known from the very beginning. She ought to have realised the very moment the two of them burned their old lives and gathered up their courage and vanished into a new life she knew nothing of, that no matter what they said, they were not coming back. But as cruel fate would have it, it was that precise moment that she fell in love with him.

And life had toyed with both of them: allowing him to return and then leave her again; forcing them to think Ed was gone before bringing him suddenly, startlingly back; making her believe then, in that split second, that they were both here now, both back and safe and _home_- only to snatch them both away again.

And that last time, the final time they left her, she had not reached out and pleaded with them to stay. She was tired, it seemed, of wishing they would listen to her. Wishing makes no difference. Instead, she watched them in silence, unable to deprive herself of the indulgence of that last glance, and then turned on her heel without looking back, and made her heavy but light, full but empty, strange but inevitable way home.

But it still feels so _unfair_. She barely spent time together with him, barely held him in her arms, barely loved him. And even though they have been friends all their lives, it still feels as though she barely knew him. She only understands now- _too late, too late, too late_- how close she once was to him, so close that had she held out her hand, he would have taken it.

Now, after she has finally realised all these things, he has gone. And now, even if he reached out his hand and she stretched out hers, there is a fracture between them, a hairline crack in the plane of the world, and it swallows everything.

* * *

_Author's notes: As you can see, this is a bit different from what I normally write for "Colours". It follows the movie story arc, for one thing. Please review and tell me what you think. :D_


	48. Air

**Air**

He has fallen asleep a while ago.

They are curled up on the couch together, end-to-end, beneath a blanket. Her brain is numbed and reluctant, and it meanders contentedly around in the back of her skull and mumbles one work blearily to itself- _comfortable_. She could have stayed there forever, had it not been for her thirst, which over time has gradually increased until it is severe enough to make her throat sore and angry when she swallows.

She tries to ignore it, but there is a dry harsh tickle in the roof of her mouth which threatens to explode out of her in a frenzy of coughing- and that, she knows, would wake him up.

She doesn't want that.

So she carefully extracts her limbs from within the heap upon the sofa, swings her legs to the ground and wanders barefoot into the kitchen, reeling slightly from the rush of blood in her head. The tap groans and the pipes clatter as they deliver the water, and she winces and puts her finger to her lips, as if pleading with them for silence.

The glass is long and cool, and she vanishes into it as she drinks.

Returning to the living room she thinks of cushions and warm skin. Her feet are cold from the kitchen tiles, and there is a certain childlike part of her that just wants to curl up close to him and sleep-

Then she sees him. He appears to have grown cold while she was gone- he has rolled over onto his side in his sleep, his arms crossed over his chest and his hands at his shoulders gripping the blanket, which is wrapped tightly around him.

She raises an eyebrow. So things will not be as easy as she thought.

Her first attempts are useless- she cannot remove the blanket from out of his hands without using some force, it seems- and she does not want to yank it away from him. She tries to ease his fingers open gently- but she already knows that this particular battle is lost. She has learned from experience that he is both a deep sleeper and a determined one: if he falls asleep with his fists clenched, they will remain so until the morning.

She glares at him in frustration. _If he knew how annoying he can be when he's asleep, he'd be ashamed_, she thinks.

Then an idea strikes her.

She bends over him and begins to trail light feathery kisses- more air than skin- over the slopes and planes of his shoulders. He responds, even through his sleep: his whole body relaxes and he rolls over into her touch.

She smiles to herself, slides her hands down slowly over his chest- and tugs the blanket from his limp grasp.

She grins smugly as she nestles back down beside him and draws the blanket over them both, and her expression remains triumphant even as her eyelids drift closed.

* * *

_Author's notes: Back to normal again. :D There probably won't be any more movie-based stuff here._


	49. Twist

**Twist**

passing by,

swift in the too-large corridors

that twist to accommodate his overstuffed self

he turns up his collar and muffles his

face against the light and heat

and catches the noises in the corner of his eye

and the scenery pauses

to allow him to hear

* * *

she talks

and the words push out of her palms

* * *

no

but that's not alright

it isn't my suffering to play with

even though when I touch him it seeps into me

and I feel everything he cannot

it isn't right

it's not what he wants

it's not what he wants

* * *

stop

and sounds start

and metal moves around her

and teaspoons of sea salt

she ignores.

* * *

he waits

and his eyes tell him what his head cannot-

* * *

he has never heard her think that way before.

* * *

_Author's notes: Man, I hate this site's formatting. D:_

_On another note, I went to a con this Saturday! 8D Hee, it was amazing. . . I met Colleen Clinkenbeard and Laura Bailey, and gave them some fanart I'd done. And I met Eoin Colfer, too- madly exciting, as I didn't even know he'd be there. Has anyone here read his books? They're AWESOME. Plus, some FMA art books that I'd ordered for my birthday arrived today. Glee._


	50. Forever

**Forever**

Forever, Michael tells himself as he lifts the heavy leather-bound book from his father's desk, that's how long he has been waiting for this moment. It is almost worth the unreasonable wait to finally be holding the tome in his arms, to hear the creak of its stiff spine and heft its weight in his hands. Strange, he thinks, that even though it is always kept in the same place- he has never in his whole life seen it be moved- it is kept in pristine condition, with not even a hint of dust on its rich leather cover. This thought does not trouble him for long, however, as it is soon overpowered by an intense surge of satisfaction.

Michael is feeling exceptionally pleased with himself.

He is almost tempted to open the book here and now, but manages- just barely- to resist the urge. Instead, he tucks the tome as far under his arm as it will go, jumps down off the stool and leaves the study, having decided on the spot to go outside in order to examine his prize. He is so intensely focused on his own anticipation that the crash when the stool overbalances almost fails to reach his ears.

Someone ruffles his hair as he goes outside, but he doesn't stop to identify the owner of the hand placed briefly upon his head. By now the excitement is bubbling up uncontrollably in his chest and his throat, and his self-satisfied strut warps into a tumbling run as he heads further out into the open air, having entirely forgotten why he cannot yet open the book, concentrating on the feel of it, its shape and texture, how it digs into his ribs as he struggles to keep it wedged between his arm and his side.

Eventually he reaches the crest of the hill, and there is another small victory to add to Michael's mental list as he flops down breathless into the grass, the book falling beside him. He heaves it into his lap immediately, not able to wait another minute, and wrenches the covers apart.

His face creases with confusion.

It is a photograph album. Every inch of paper has been covered with carefully labelled pictures, some glossy and fresh, others faded and tattered at the corners. There must be hundreds of them, he thinks- and yet he cannot recognise himself in a single one. Instead, the book has been filled with images of other people, who stare out of the page and meet his eyes unflinchingly. They are young- children- with hair the colour of sunlight and round smiling faces. But gradually, as he flicks through the book, their eyes become quiet and sad, and those smooth faces grow haunted. He sees time pass, bringing stiff funeral clothes. He sees metal. He sees the collection of people grow smaller. He sees children and then he sees adults, and all the way through he sees rows and rows of graves. He sees things he can't explain, places he has never been, people he has never met.

He sees pain on these pages: years of it.

And then, on the final page, looking almost comically out of place in its environment, he sees a photograph of his parents' wedding.

It is the only picture without a caption.

"What's that?"

Michael jumps, half-turns, guiltily makes to cover the book- before he recognises his younger sister standing behind him. He flips back through the album, watching the passage of time in reverse, as she joins him on the ground.

"It's pictures of some strangers' lives," he says at last. "Want to see?"

* * *

_Author's notes: ARGH. LATE, LATE, SHAMELESSLY LATE. D: Sorry. This was quite difficult to write, as it contains an OC LOL WHUT? XD I don't normally like those. At all. __Still, expect to see more of Michael at some point. :3_

_On another note, whoo! 50 chapters! I feel so proud. (And stunned.)_


	51. Sun

**Sun**

His first memory of her is of light: of a shining, laughing, golden face with the sun behind it, slices of sunbeam forcing their way around the sides of her head. He doesn't think about this very often- usually he focuses on his more recent memories- but even so, it is as though this image of has affected his perception of her on a far deeper level than he thought. By now, he is almost unable to think of her without instantly picturing a sharp, achingly bright light. As he thinks about it, however, he gradually begins to realise that this picture is more fitting than he would have expected.

Because to him, she is like the sun in many ways. She is the centre of his world, and she makes him feel at home wherever he is. She shines through whatever darkness comes their way, and she is dazzling to look at. She is eternal and constant; she is warm and strong; she is golden and bright and beautiful.

Because to him, she is the sun.

* * *

_Author's notes: LOL IT'S SHORT. OH WELL. XD_

_Sorry for any confusion the last chapter may have caused. In case you couldn't tell, Michael is Al and Winry's first child. :3_


	52. Moon

**Moon**

Most of the time, he prides himself on his ability to read her moods. He has always been good at interpreting facial expressions- which was an ironic ability to have, back when he was in the armour, when not even the most perceptive of people could have picked up on the way he was feeling merely by looking at him. In recent years, he has become something of an expert at reading body language, too; and by now he is able to vaguely sense her emotions purely through the sound of her breathing and the way she moves.

Tonight, however, the moon is obscured by a thick curtain of clouds, and the sounds of the stream and the night seem louder than usual, and he is distracted by the sensation of the wind, and the grass beneath his bare feet, so he has no idea what she is thinking.

Perhaps she has become used to him being able to predict what she wants before she even asks for it, because when the tug at his sleeve eventually comes, it is sharp and impatient, and demanding.

In the darkness, he turns his head, and all his senses instantly focus on her form. The second he sees her face, made expressionless by the lack of moonlight; and hears her almost soundless breathing; and feels the way she is shifting her weight almost imperceptibly beside him, he knows exactly what it is she wants.

It doesn't take the light of the moon to show him when Winry wants a kiss.


	53. Star

**Star**

The shooting star is nothing more than a brief silver flash which he glimpses in the corner of his eye and which shines for slightly less than a second before it vanishes. Even so, she gasps and claps her hands with joy as though it is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.

Still glowing with delight, she turns her face up to his, grasps his arm and says, laughing breathlessly, "Did you see that?"

"Not really," he says, and the words come out slowly, because he is distracted by her hands and the way they move over his back and chest and shoulders and neck and face.

"What did you wish for?" he asks after a long pause. Her hands are in his hair and on his skin. They are cold, and yet they spread warmth throughout his whole body.

She shivers, both at the night air and at his fingertips trailing lightly along her lower back. "If I tell you, it won't come true," she murmurs, and she takes hold of the back of his head with both her hands, pulling his face down to meet hers.

There is silence for a long time, during which several more stars fall gently to earth unnoticed.

"You don't get a wish if you didn't see the star," she says finally.

Standing there with her in the dark, lip against lip, breath against breath, he is unable to think of anything else he could possibly wish for.

* * *

_Author's notes: Sun, Moon, Star. The mini-saga is complete. :3_

_Could you tell me if you want to read more about Michael? I'm trying to decide whether or not to write him again. :)_


	54. Give

**Give**

Everyone knows

that when you're meeting with someone close

you give them a warm smile.

But I can't do that

so I just wave.

* * *

Everyone knows

that when you're together with someone dear

you give them a long hug.

But I can't do that

so I just listen.

* * *

Everyone knows

that when you're sitting with someone special

you give them a soft kiss.

But I can't do that

so I just look.

* * *

Everyone knows

that when you're along with someone precious

you give them three small words.

But I can't do that.

So I just love.

* * *

_Author's notes: Does anyone even read the author's notes? I didn't get any responses to my question about Michael. It's a yes or no question, people. ; . ;_


	55. Kitten

**Kitten**

"Close your eyes," she demands, appearing in front of him all of a sudden, so that he jumps and takes a startled step backwards. She is leaning towards him, her face close enough for her to kiss him- or to bite his nose off, which, given the alarming number of teeth which her grin is displaying, seems more likely.

He hesitates. He still remembers when, a few months ago, he was in a very similar situation. Then, the other person was Ed, the wide grin was a front to hide the scheme the elder brother was hatching, and the plot was to snatch the last slice of cake from off the table and flee the scene before Al even managed to open his eyes.

"Go on," she says, and her grin gets, if anything, still toothier.

He notices then that she is holding both her hands behind her back.

In the end he decides, as ever, to trust her. He closes his eyes.

"Hold out your hands," she says, her voice sounding breathless with excitement.

He does.

Evidently she has become too impatient to continue waiting for him to follow her orders: there is a noise as of a box being placed on a table, and then she seizes his wrists and moves them together so that his hands touch.

"Right," she says. "Wait."

He hears footsteps, a creak of cardboard, a tiny high-pitched wail-

- and then she scampers gleefully from the room with one final instruction: to "open your eyes!"

He is left alone, with her presence lingering in the room, an open cardboard box on the table, and a tiny kitten, a ball of damp fur no larger than his palms, nestled between his hands.

* * *

_Author's notes: Despite the lack of responses to my questions, I'm going to continue placing important announcements here._

_From now on, I will not be able to update as frequently as I do normally. I'm suffering from writer's block right now, and I'm very busy. You can still expect to see chapters- just not as often. Thanks for the support._

_Once again, I'm going to plead for reviews. It really does make me feel a whole lot happier about my writing._


	56. Tree

**Tree**

She climbs all the way up the huge ancient tree in their front garden, compulsively, in the spur of the moment. Sitting balanced between a large bough, as wide as her waist, and the gnarled trunk, she picks pieces of bark from the branches around her and watches them fall onto the dry grass below. She collects leaves in the palm of her hand, one leg slung over the solid wooden limb beneath her, and squints up at the sky through the foliage, simply enjoying the height of the vantage point, and the breeze on her face.

When, a number of minutes later, he walks out of the front door and gazes around with a confused expression, obviously wondering where she has gone, she flings a handful of leaves at him.

He looks up and around blindly as they flutter down around him, and only realises where she is when he hears her giggle from the branches of the tree above his head.

He stares at her. "What are you doing up there?"

She shrugs, "I don't know," she says. "I wanted to see whether I could climb it."

He blinks.

"It's nice up here," she says, gazing around. "It's like being a kid again."

He looks blankly at her for a moment- and then suddenly moves towards the tree and swings his leg over one of the lower branches.

"It's not as hard at it looks," she calls down to him, shifting around so that she can watch his ascent. "There's a big knot, slightly to your right, see? You can step on that."

He finds it quickly, and within a few minutes he is sitting breathless on the branch beside her, looking around in delight.

They sit in silence for a while, high above the ground, watching leaves fall in dizzying spirals to the lawn below them. But soon, inevitably, their attention turns to each other; she wraps both arms around his neck and turns her face up with a smile, and their kiss is long and deep.

After a while- neither of them can say whether it is seconds, minutes or even hours- there is a loud crash. Startled, they break apart and stare as a very angry Edward Elric sticks his head out of one of the windows.

"Oi!" he yells. "Cut that out! I can _see_ you, you know."

"Don't look, then," Winry replies coolly- although Al, at least, has the decency to blush.

Ed sputters for a minute or so; Winry raises an eyebrow, crosses her legs, and waits for his coherency to return.

"Don't look?!" Ed manages eventually. "You're right outside my bedroom window!"

There is a short pause.

"Sorry, Brother."

"What are you doing in your bedroom at this time, anyway?" Winry asks innocently.

"Studying, what do you think?" he snaps, and he pulls his head back inside and slams the window.

Mournfully, they begin to climb down once again, both rendered strangely silent. They cannot complain about Ed's irrational demands, as they usually would have, because today his behaviour has been disarmingly reasonable.

"It really is nice up there," Al comments once they are standing on solid ground once again.

"Hmmm."

He stands for a moment gazing up into the foliage, as if memorizing the patterns of the leaves-

- and Winry is standing close beside him, and her hands are running down the inside of his arm and over his fingers, and her lips are at his ear.

"This evening, once it's got dark. Ed will have closed his curtains by then, right?

* * *

_Author's notes: The good news is that my exams are now over, so I have more time to write and update._

_The bad news is that soon I'll have exams again._

_But for now, I'm going to work hard on this series! I want to show it more love._


	57. Greeting

**Greeting**

None of them like to spend much time away from home. Ed and his brother have been travelling for so long that by now they would be grateful to have a house to live in at all. That it is with Winry- in _Risembool_, even- could almost be described as a blessing, if he believed in that sort of thing. The region calls him in the most raw, irresistible way possible, and although he spends half his time in Central these days, he still considers Risembool his _home._

Some day, if it becomes possible, he would like Scieszka to live here with him.

For now, he puts up with travelling.

It is different with Al and Winry. Their work means that it is comparatively rare for them to be called away from the village, and they have grown accustomed to seeing each other every day. This makes it almost unbearable for Al when Winry- usually on a business trip to one of her automail clients- has not been at home for a few days; for Ed, when he is left in the house with his brother, and he can _see_ how badly Al misses her- but the subject is not broached until the third day, maybe the fourth.

"I know, Al."

"I'm worried, even though I know she does this sort of thing all the time."

"I know, Al."

And the next day she arrives home, tired and grumpy, complaining about dusty roads and uncomfortable trains. She kicks her shoes off and drops her huge travelling case onto the ground-

-and Al flies out into the corridor at the speed of sound and lifts her feet off the ground with the enthusiasm of his embrace-

"Calm down, Al, I've not even been gone a week!"

-and he sets her down but doesn't let go, and she is laughing, and she wraps her arms around his waist-

-and Ed sidles quietly off into the kitchen, because he knows from experience that there is very little that will distract them from each other at this point, and they have already forgotten that he is there.

* * *

_Author's notes: Any Death Note fans out there? I may have a fic on the way._

_I still have lots planned for this series, though! Most of all, I'd like to include more of Roy and Riza, but it's quite difficult. They seem a bit isolated..._


	58. Frog

**Frog**

He has been sitting motionless for at least ten minutes now, she realises as she turns to look at him, drying her hair with an already damp towel. He is perched on the edge of the bank: wet hair clinging to his neck and soaking his collar, trousers rolled up to his knees, dangling his feet in the river and watching the cool water flow by with a focused concentration.

"Al?" she calls over to him.

"Ssh," he says, barely audible, breathless with excitement and still not moving an inch.

She frowns, puzzled. "What is it?" she asks, quieter now.

"Frog," he whispers.

Moving slowly, she shuffles across to kneel beside him. "Where?"

"My foot," he replies.

She leans out over the water to get a closer look and spots it: a small, grey-green frog, about the length of her thumb, perched contentedly on Al's right foot, which he is holding breathlessly still in the water. The creature does not acknowledge her arrival, but continues to stare fixedly at Al's ankle with huge unblinking golden eyes.

"It sort of looks like Ed," she whispers, and his concentration is shattered: he collapses into laughter. The frog appears affronted, leaps into the water and vanishes instantly.

"I'm sorry," she says, but he shakes his head.

"It's all right. It was only a frog."

"…It _did_ look like Ed, didn't it?"

"A little," he says, chuckling, "except greener."

"And cuter."

He laughs again.

She sighs, and lies back onto the bank. "I'm still wet," she says after a while, "but I can't be bothered to get dry just yet."

"Your clothes are damp, anyway."

She gazes up at the sky, narrowing her eyes against the bright sunlight, as he pulls his feet out of the water and begins to dry them on a towel.

"I love you," she says suddenly.

And the air goes utterly still.

"Winry?"

"Hmm?"

"You've never said that before."

"Mmm," she acknowledges. "I just wanted to tell you, that's all."

He is silent for a few more moments, rolling the legs of his trousers down thoughtfully, before folding the towel up and setting it to one side.

"…Winry?"

"Hmm?"

Then he kisses her.

They arrive home a while later, holing their crumpled towels under their arms. Pinako raises an eyebrow at them _(hours late!)_ and opens her mouth to berate them- but then she notices their quiet elated smiles and their interlocked fingers and their frequent sidelong glances at each other, and she decides in that moment not to comment.

* * *

_Author's notes: Summer has graced us British folk with its presence, bringing along such beautiful weather that I was quite unexpectedly inspired to write. What an oasis of genuine creativity in the desert of school work. It also doesn't hurt that frogs are my favorite animals._

_Tomorrow marks my official last day of lessons at school. Next week I begin my exams for the qualifications I've been studying for all this time, after which- further education! Suffice to say, I'm in a whirlwind of emotions right now, which goes some way towards explaining why I'm telling you all this. Anyway- enjoy, review if you have the time, share the love..._


	59. Luxury

**Luxury**

She has never been one for being pampered. To her, the best things in life are the simplest: watching the slow morph of colours at sunrise, the cramped, aching delight of finally achieving something she has been working towards, the sight and sound and sensation of those she loves. She likes eating good warm food until she is full; she likes lying in the bathtub and soaking her muscles in hot unscented water; she likes clean sheets on the bed and him beside her; she likes to smile and she likes to laugh. These are the things she wants, and she has no desire for anything more sumptuous.

All the same, she admits to herself, she finds great pleasure in that ultimate symbol of extravagance, the grape. There is a bunch of them in the fruit bowl, fat and purple, and she eats them cold and still wet from being washed. When she glances at him across the table and catches him watching her again, she just smiles, leans forwards and slips one of the fruits into his mouth with finger and thumb.

It is more enjoyable, she thinks, licking her fingers, to sit at the bare kitchen table in her old stained overalls eating grapes and watching his startled blush, than it would be to indulge in a thousand luxuries.

* * *

_Author's notes: Well, it's been a while. I really have no excuse other than the fact that__ in the meantime__ I've been writing quite a lot in the Death Note fandom, and that I lost my notebook containing this, among several other first drafts, when I moved house last October. When I found it today I felt like I had to upload something. After such a gap, this chapter seems inadequately short, but rest assured this is only the first of many fics and ficlets contained in the fugitive notebook._

_As always, any feedback would be much appreciated.  
_


	60. Knot

**knot**

sometimes i want to tell you all my faults—

i want to sit you down and tell you

everything

one then the next

a warless surrender

over the razed wooden field of the table

in the kitchen

and hands under the table

twisting

and knotted fingers—

and i want to tell you because i

should

and because i know you're wrong about me—

i want to put words in your head

pour through your ears

and i know it will harm me

but the truth is precious

like you—

but they stop

half-out

and i try to talk and knots pull tight—

and i smile and say something

something that isn't right

but what else is there to say to you

white flag, and i speak

something like—

I'll tell you later.

* * *

_Author's notes: More old writing, and more poetry. Meanwhile, on the RL side of things, it's just over a week until I get my exam results and I'm scared to death. D:_


	61. Cream

**Cream**

She does not have very many opportunities to visit Central these days. She does not normally travel for work: most of her clients live far closer to Risembool, and it is rare for her to be forced to go to the capital to buy a certain necessary tool or piece of equipment- usually, Rush Valley has everything she needs. As for recreational visits, they have become an impossibility. Whatever little time she may have had for recreation when she was working her apprenticeship or with a partner has completely evaporated now that she has become the leader of her own business, number one around the house. She is pleased, of course, that her career is going so well, but it is consuming her life at such a rate that she worries whether she will have any free time at all by next year.

So when, much to her surprise, she discovers that against all probability she has a spare day approaching, she resolves to take advantage of the unlikely freedom and visit Central.

"I think I'll go shopping," she says to Ed and Al at dinner that evening.

"I thought you said Rush Valley was the best place for that?" Al says, confused.

"Well- for automail tools and so on, yes. But I won't be shopping for work. I'll be shopping for me."

"Automail stuff _is_ you stuff," Ed says; Winry cuffs him lightly.

All the same, she thinks later, clutching her bag on her knees as she sits awkwardly in the crowded carriage, feeling distinctly scruffy and rural amongst all the smartly dressed commuters riding the train to Central, there is not really much she can think of that she might buy. She does not need any new clothes or shoes; the house is fully furnished; they are never short of food. It would, in fact, be very easy for her to return home having bought nothing but work-related items after all- but wouldn't that just prove Ed right?

She steels her resolve.

_Jewellery_, she thinks, _I could buy that_. But she does not normally wear necklaces or bracelets- too inconvenient- and she knows that buying earrings would scare the brothers. Ed had told her just a few days previously that both he and his younger sibling were growing increasingly concerned about the amount of metal weighing down her ears.

"That's why me and Al don't buy you earrings any more," he had said, "in case it acts as a… catalyst. I don't want people to start thinking _you're_ the Fullmetal Alchemist, do I?"

Winry supposes the worry makes sense. She has after all had rather a lot of holes punched in her ears over time, and is approaching the stage where she would have to move on to other areas of her face in order to accommodate any more piercings. To Ed and Al, the idea of someone having a needle pushed through their flesh is vaguely unsettling, and when this is added to how protective they- especially Al, and especially now- are of her, the doubt and apprehension morphs into a moderate dizziness and nausea. Winry would most likely have to ply them with alcohol before even broaching the subject with them.

She resolves to stay away from the earrings, at least for now.

So she wanders aimlessly around the streets of Central, bag in hand, gazing into shop windows as she walks and thinking, _I don't want any of this_. She is beginning to suspect that it was a bad ides to come here at all. She should be spending this time at home relaxing, or visiting her friends, or-

"Miss Winry!"

She turns to see Riza Hawkeye crossing the street towards her, stepping delicately in her small-heeled shoes and holding a paper bag of groceries close to her chest.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Riza says as she reaches the pavement where Winry stands.

"Um, hello," Winry begins- and then realises that she has no idea how to address this woman.

"I'm just finishing here," Riza says, smiling at her. "If you like, you could come with me. There's a café on this street that I always visit after doing my shopping."

"Thank you," Winry says with genuine gratitude: she has been growing distinctly unsure about what to do with herself all day.

They fall into step beside each other, and Winry soon notices an advantage to her new companion. Normally she would have had to battle her way through the seething masses of people, using force and the occasional well-placed elbow- but the crowds simply melt away before Riza, peeling off to either side as if they are all too aware that her brisk pace could crush them easily. All Winry has to do is stay close to the taller woman's side and hope not to get lost in the crowded streets.

The café, when the reach it, is clean, smart and highly efficient: they are greeted, shown to a table and served in under two minutes. In short, it is just the sort of place she would have expected Riza Hawkeye to like.

Riza drinks coffee, it turns out. What's more, she drinks it strong, with no milk and minimal sugar. For a while, Winry feels childishly ashamed of her unsophisticated hot chocolate- until Riza dollops a spoonful of cream into her mug and spreads jam onto he thick slice of teacake.

"It's nice here," Winry ventures.

"No personal touch," Riza replies coolly, wiping her fingers on a napkin. "They only want to serve you and then get rid of you as quickly as possible."

"…Oh."

Maybe not the sort of place Riza Hawkeye likes, after all.

"So," the older woman says, pushing her plate to one side, "what brings you to Central? I thought you didn't come here often."

"I don't," Winry hastens to affirm. "I don't have much spare time, you see. But I'm free today, so I thought I'd go shopping." She decides not to add that she has no idea what to buy.

"I see," Riza says thoughtfully. Her fingers wrap loosely around her mug and she stares pensively at the thick cream melting spirals into the hot coffee.

"Are you alright?" Winry asks, leaning forwards and cursing herself all the while for failing to pay enough attention.

"Actually I wanted to apologise," Riza says, again demonstrating her fondness for coming straight to the point. "Roy told me last month that you and Alphonse had got engaged, but-"

"He told you last month?" Winry says in surprise.

"Yes," Riza confirms, "about three or four weeks ago."

Winry frowns in confusion; Riza notices, and a suspicion forms in her mind. "What is it?" she asks slowly.

"It's just," Winry says, still regarding the tablecloth with an expression of bewilderment, "Al only asked me about a week ago."

There is a pause.

"There's probably been a misunderstanding," Winry says eventually- but Riza knows differently. She makes a mental note to interrogate Roy about this tonight. _At least this explains why he stopped me from telephoning to congratulate them,_ she thinks.

"In any case," she continues, deciding that Winry does not need to know about this- at least for now, "we ought to have visited you, or at least sent a letter. It's an important time for you."

"That's alright," Winry says hastily. "I know you're busy."

"Hmm."

They lapse into silence. Winry takes a sip of her hot chocolate; Riza watches thoughtfully, amber eyes narrower.

"Congratulations," she says softly. "I'm sure you two will make wonderful parents."

Winry chokes on her drink.

Startled customers turn to look at them as Winry clutches a napkin to her mouth, eyes streaming; Riza half-rises, but sits back down as the coughing begins to subside. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you-"

"H- how did you know?" Winry manages, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

Riza realises, somewhat belatedly, that the younger woman may not have told anyone about her pregnancy yet; uncharacteristically, she flushes a little, and has to suppress the urge to shift uncomfortably in her seat. "Is it a secret?"

"Not really," Winry says, still stunned. "Ed and Grandma know- and Al, of course- and my friends, and a few people in the village. But I didn't realise that you and Mr Mustang knew about it… Did Scieszka tell you?"

"No," Riza says, "I could tell. I can usually sense these things."

"Oh."

"Do you feel ready?" Riza asks after a while.

Winry hesitates- but then nods. "I wasn't sure I would ever be," she admits. "That's why I was nervous to start with. But… Al's been so great, and everyone's being so supportive. I think now is as good a time as ever."

"You'll make wonderful parents," Riza says again.

This time, Winry responds with a heartfelt smile.

* * *

_Author's notes: Finally, something of decent length. And Riza, too! What joy._

_As ever, please comment if you can. :)  
_


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